
Class lEliIiL2l 



GoipghtK°_J3liX 



COPBRIGHT DEPOSm 



LEVES KINKEAD 




FRENCH5 STANDARD UBRARYEDmOlr' ■ 



AMtJEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th St.. New Y 



COMMON CLAY 

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 

CLEVES KINKEAD 



Copyright, 1914, By Cleves Kinkead 
Copyright, 1917, By Cleves Kinkead 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned 
that " COMMON CLAY ", being fully protected under the 
copyright laws of the United States, is subject to a 
royalty, and anyone presenting the play without the 
consent of the owner or his authorized agents will be 
liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for 
amateur acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 
28-30 West 38th Street, New York. 



New York 
SAMUEL FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

28-30 West 38th STREET 



London 
SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 
26 Southampton Street 
STRAND 






Especial notice should be taken that the possession 
of this book without a valid contract for production 
first having been obtained from tne publisher, confers 
no right or license to professionals or amateurs to 
produce the play publicly or in private for gain or 
charity. 

In its present form this play is dedicated to the 
reading public only, and no performance of it may be 
given, except by special arrangement with Samuel 
French. 

SECTION 28.— That any person who v/ilfully cr for 
profit shall infringe any copyright secured by this act, 
or who shall knowingly and wilfully aid or abet such 
infringment, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, 
and upon conviction thereof shall be punished by im- 
prisonment for not exceeding oue year, or by a fine of 
not less than one hundred dollars no::' more than one 
thousand dollars, cr both, in the discretion of the 
court. Act of March 4, 1&09. 



/ 

OCT -8 1917 



CI.D 4t;o!rj' 



s 



DEDICATED WITH AFFECTION 

TO MY FATHER 

ROBERT C. KINKEAD 

OF LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY 



COMMON CLAY 



CAST 



Judge Samuel Filson 

Richard Fullerton 

Hugh Fullerton 

Arthur Coakley 

W. H. Yates, Attorney 

Edwards 

Judge of ike City Court 

Bailiff 

Clerk 

Ellen Neal 

Mrs. Fullerton 

Anne Fullerton 

Miss Warren 

Mrs. Neal 

Guests, Officers, Servant, etc. 



SCENES 

Act I. In the home of the Fullertons, Christ- 
mas, 1904. 
Act II. Filson's Law Office, October, 1905. 
Act III. The City Court Room, the next morn- 
ing. 
Act IV. Same as Act I, January, 191 5. 

Place: An American City. 
Time: From Christmas, 1904, to January, 191 5, 



COMMON CLAY 



ACT I 



Scene: In the home of the Fullertons on an 
evening in the Christmas holidays, 1904. Down- 
stage is the library or sitting room, which 
opens thru a very large archway into the hall. 
A stairzvay — wide, zvith bannisters, conies dozvn 
into halhvay from the right of stage to a wide 
landing, from which a fezv steps come dozvn 
to the floor of hall, all in view of the^audience 
thru the opening from the sitting room. There 
are entrances thru right and left of the hall- 
zvay off-stage. There is also an entrance, door, 
at the upper left of library. Lower left of 
library is a fireplace, and right of library is a 
large curtained bow zvindozv, an alcove zvindow- 
seat with pillozvs, etc. The furnishings of the 
sitting room are sumptuous and comfortable. 
In the center of the room is a large, heavy 
fable, on zvhich sits a large bozvl of creamy 
egg-nog surrounded by small cups, and a tray 
zvith a decanter of zvhiskey, high-ball glasses, 
measuring glasses, and a dish of cracked ice. 
There are several leather covered easy-chairs, 
and a sofa turned slightly tozvard the fireplace, 
but facing audience. At the right belozv 
zvindow-seat is an ornate stand lamp zvith a 
chair adjacent. On the library zvall iinmediately 
left of archway are push-buttons for lighting 
5 



6 COMMON CLAY 

electric lights in library and to summon ser- 
vants. 

There are bookcases around the walls, and 
there are pictures and portraits of prosperous 
looking /i^-FuLLETRONS and ^/i^-Fullertons 
who have gone before, adding lustre to the 
family name by owning property, wearing good 
clothes, and riding in carriages. One of these 
portraits hangs over fireplace. 

Left of stage is the rear of the residence and 
the front door can be heard to slam off-stage at 
the right end of hallway. 

At Rise: The stage, brightly lighted, is empty of 
persons, but the spirit of Christmas and holi- 
days pervades. About the library are holly 
and mistletoe, a bunch of the latter hanging 
from center of ceiling. The music of a two- 
step of the period — a medley of Harvard's 
"Our Director" and the Yale '' Boola" is 
heard coming from upstairs — off-stage before 
and after the curtain rises. 

After a half-minute Edwards enters left 
door. He crosses to table, tastes a glass of the 
egg-nog, slyly, and tips the decanter, letting 
some of the whiskey into bowl. 

Mrs. Fullerton enters from door left. She 
is a tall, handsome woman, faultlessly dressed 
in evening gown. Altho about forty-eight, she 
carries her years so lightly and dresses with 
such effect that she is still physically attractive, 
and to this charm there is added with the years, 
a certain dignity and forcefulness. 

Mrs. Fullerton. {Observing Edwards, calmly) 
I think it quite strong enough, Edwards. 

Edwards. (Starting) I beg your pardon, 
ma'am. (Setting decanter on its tray and speaking 



to 



COMMON CLAY 7 

explanatorily) Christmas comes but once a year, 
ma'am. 

(The dance-music comes to a stop and is supple- 
mented by laughter and chatter from the guests 
off-stage above. Richard Fullerton, gray- 
haired and tall, enters coming down stairway.) 

Mrs. Fullerton. {To Edwards) But we 
don't make that an excuse for intemperance — in this 
house. You may go. 

Edwards. Yes, ma'am. (Edwards exits left 
door as Fullerton enters library) 

Fullerton. Evelyn, aren't you neglecting our 
quests ? 

Mrs. Fullerton. No, Richard, Vm looking 
after the arrangements. Fm short of servants — 
Marie left yesterday. 

Fullerton. Marie? Why did she leave? 

Mrs. Fullerton. Oh, she began to know too 
much. {Sits wearily) Do you know, Richard, the 
servant problem gives me more trouble than any- 
thing in life. Girls of to-day simpty will not do 
menial work. It's nothing in the world but vanity. 

F'ullerton. Yes, I know, my dear. {Then in a 
reflective tone) But Fd hate to have to do it my- 
self. Still, what you say is true. This country is 
going to the dogs because people no longer know 
their places. 

Mrs. Fullerton. Yes, Richard, I know. How 
do you think Marie answered me when I told her 
that she could have her time off any Sunday before 
breakfast, if she wanted to go to church? 

Fullerton. How? 

Mrs. Fullerton. ** Oh, no, thank you, ma'am," 
she said. " The church is no friend of the working 
classes, and I'll take my religion on Sunday morn- 



8 COMMON CLAY 

iiigs where you take your breakfast — in hed." 
(FuLLERTON lauglis) Oh, you may think it's funny, 
but if there's one thing we must have from a servant, 
it is respect. And, Richard, we must give them 
respect to get it from them. I've been meaning 
to speak to you about this. The other day, when 
Hugh came home from college, he chucked Marie 
under the* chin rather familiarly. (Fullerton 
smiles) Now I know Hugh's a good bey, but he's 
just at the age v/here he thinks it's smart to be a 
devil, and I wish you'd speak to him ai)out it. 

Fullerton. Nonsense, my dear. The boy's a 
fine, healthy young animal. Nature will assert it- 
self. We all have to go through that stage of de- 
velopment, and the girl may have egged him on. 

Mrs. Fullerton. Now, isn't that like a man! 

Fullerton. Um. Yes, perhaps. But you do 
like your old husband, don't you, darling? {He 
pats her on the cheek, she smiles) 

Mrs. Fullerton. Yes, you're a good, kind, 
thoughtful boy; and we've been in love a long 
time, haven't we, dear? 

Fullerton. (Kisses her) We have, my love. 
But come, let us go upstairs to our guests. 

Mrs. Fullerton. (Rising) You run along, 
Richard. Edwards engaged a new maid this morn- 
ing, and I want to speak to her about serving the 
party supper. I have not had a chance to look her 
over, and I don't want dovs^dy, slouchy, ill-dressed 
girls about the house, I told Edv/ards to get one 
who had some style to her, and I want to see her. 

Fullerton. Well, I'll leave her to you. I never 
know how to talk to women in that position — (Exits 
tip stairway) 

(Anne Fullerton passes him coming dozvn. She 
taps him on the hack playfully zvitJi Jier fan 
and hastily enters the library. Anne is a good 



COMMON CLAY 9 

looking young woman, to the^ manor born, at- 
tired in ^evening gozvn. She is of thai; type of 
woman zvho in youth are seriously frivolous, 
and develop into capable wives after their hus- 
band-hnnting, in a guise of pleasure-seeking, 
is ended.) 

Anne. Oh, mother, I've been looking for you. 
Don't you think it's about time that supper came 
along upstairs? 

Mrs. Fullerton. I'm arranging for that now. 
I'm going to have the nev/ maid assist h.dwards. 

Anne. Dear old mother, ahvays to be relied on. 
{She kisses her mother) I hope I'll be as good a 
head of the house as you are. 

Mrs. Fullerton. (Pinching Anne's cheek) 
Philip must have proposed again this evening. 

Anne. He went a step further. (She pauses 
while her mother looks inquisitive) He became 
engaged to me. 

Mrs. Fullerton. Well, I know that when we 
turn you over to Philip, you'll be in safe hands, my 
chick. I'm very happy to feel that both you and 
Hugh have been good children and deserve ail the 
advantages that you've had. 

Anne. There'nov/, Muddy dear, 3v-ou needn't get 
in the mood for sermons just because i'rn going to 
be married. (Edwards enters l. zvith tray of 
salads) Ah, here comes Edwards now Vv^ith the 
things. Well, I'll get back to the ballroom. (She 
blows a kiss to Jier mother and exits up stairzvay) 

Mrs. Fullerton. Edwards, do you think that 
new maid could help you to serve the supper ? 

Edwards. There's something about 'er, my lady, 
which suggests capability — with the proper training 

— such as I might give 'er 

Mrs. Fullerton. (Smiling) Very well, 



10 COMMON CLAY 

Edwards. I want you to give her the necessary 
directions. 

Edwards. Very well, ma'am. 

Mrs. Fullerton. But Edwards, I want to look 
her over and have a word with her. Will you send 
her in? 

(Edwards hows, deposits his tray on table by de- 
canter and exits l. In a moment he returns, 
followed by Ellen.) 

Edwards. The young person. {Exits, going up- 
stairs zvith tray from table) 

(There ore strained recognitions exchanged between 
Mrs. Fullerton and Ellen. Ellen, in maid's 
attire, is of good figure and pretty face. There 
is abottt her voice a low and subdued quality 
which makes for sympathy, cmd her eyes have 
a similar appeal — they seem just nozu on the 
verge of tears. She is plainly embarrassed 
and sensitive to her present surroundings ; her 
embarrassment, for a moment, is transmitted to 
Mrs. Fullerton, who, however, catches her- 
self and speaks.) 

Mrs. Fullerton. You are the nev/ girl? What 
is your namef 

Ellen. I'm Miss — er — my name is Neal. 

Mrs. Fullerton. {Looks at the girl) What is 
your first name? 

Ellen. My first name? Oh, yes — Ellen. 

Mrs. Fullerton. You don't like to be called by 
your first name, is that it, Ellen? 

Ellen. Well, er yes, that must be it — but I know 
how these things are, ma'am. 

Mrs. Fullerton. They are — and must be, 
Ellen. A wisdom greater than our own has made 



COMMON CLAY il 

lis zvJiat we are, and placed us zvJm^e we are, and 
we must not question, but must know our places — 
and be content with them. (Sits) 

Ellen. Yes'm, I know — but it's easier to be con- 
tent with some places than with others. (Mrs. 
FuLLERTON gwcs her a quick glance, but there is no 
iv.ipudcnce in Ellen's look) Meaning no offense, 
ma'am, I was just speaking what popped into my 
head. {Looking around the room zi'ith approval) 
I wisht I'd bin born here. It v/ould have been 
better for nie, I know that. That's one reason I 
came here. I thought there'd be so much I could 
learn in a place like this — with people like you, 
ma'am — good people. I want to learn things. Not 
things you learn at school, ma'am. I've been to the 
ward schools and almost into the High School, but 
there are things that you can only learn from people 
— from good people, you know. You don't know 
what it might mean to a girl to be reared here. It's 
the difference between having a chance and not hav- 
ing one, ma'am. That's why I'm here — nobody likes 
to be a servant ! But I'm willing to be one long 
enough to learn things. 

Mrs. Fullerton. Yes, long enough to learn 
things — that's the way the girl who just left me did. 
(Reprcachfiily) As scon as she had learned enough 
to be useful here she left. 

Ellen. (Suppressing a laugh) Maybe she 
wanted to get along in the v/orld, as you teach your 
young ones to do — and she couldn't get far by stick- 
ing to a housemaid's job. 

{Music starts, low.) 

Mrs. Fullerton. {Biting her lip) Perhaps not 
— but we're not here to discuss that, Ellen. {Rises) 
My son is home from college for Christmas, and the 
young people are having a dance upstairs 



12 COMMON CLAY 

(A door is heard to open from above, music Icifder, 
The girl listens with a rapt expression, and then 
spontaneously interrupts Mrs. Fullerton.) 

Ellen. Oh, yes, there's the music now — {Uncon- 
sciously she lilts her body to the rhythm of the 
music) Oh, but it's great to dance — I love it, some- 
body told me once I was made for life and joy. 
(She catches the disapproving and surprised look of 
Mrs. Fullerton, and her features fall) But they're 
wrong, mia'am, for every time I have a good time 
I get into trouble. I suppose I was made for work, 
ma'am. 

Mrs. Fullerton. At least that is what you are 
here for, Ellen. I hope you have many good times, 
but you came here for work. (The sound of the 
door closing off-stage stops music and laughter from 
the ballroom above. Mrs. Fullerton gives Ellen 
a parting looking-over and moves tozvard the stair- 
way. As she does so, EdVv^ards is coming down- 
stairs) Edwards will tell you what to do, Ellen. 

Ellen. Yes, ma'am. 

(Mrs. Fullerton exits up stairzvay, end Edwards 
comes into the room carrying his tray now 
empty, and cooly sices up Ellen in the manner 
of a drill master looking over a razv recruit, 
Ellen bristles at this. He slowly and pom- 
pously hands her the tray, she hesitates about 
taking it.) 

Edwards. Hellen, you are to serve the hices. 
(Shakes the tray at her. She takes it resentfully) 

Ellen. My name is Ellen, Hedward. 

Edwards. And Em to be addressed as Hedwards 
— not Hedward. Use my last name and don't leave 
off the hess. 



COMMON CLAY 13 

Ellen. Very well, Edwards, I won't leave off the 
hess if you feel it's coming to you. (Edwards 
gasps) I understand that you are to tell me what 
to do. 

Edwards. Have no fear that I vv'on't tell you, 
Missy. But before I do, I want to let you know 
that you are now in service in a house where each 
must knov/ 'is or 'er place. (Ellen winces and 
starts to interrupt him, hut Edwards holds up his 
hand for silence and proceeds majestically) For 
more than twenty years I 'ave served this 'ousehold, 
and a man of m^y parts would not lend 'is talents 
to such service were it not honorable. 

Ellen. {Patiently bored) Yes, no doubt — =but 
what am I to do? 

Edv/ards. I am coming to that. You will find 
me a man of few words 

Ellen. When? 

Edwards. {Angered) When I have spoken 
what's in my mind, Missy. From your manner to- 
v/ard me I'm afraid you do not h-appreciate the 
advantages of serving in the 'ome of one of the 
oldest families in this State. But look at me — I 
started in 'ere as the man — nov/ I am what you 
might call 

Ellen. The jellyfish. {Laughing spontaneously) 
Oh, they've taken away your spine. 

Edwards. {Infuriated) You im.pudent little 
hussy, ril see that you get your walking papers — 

Ellen. {Struggling for her composure) Oh, I 
know I oughtn't to say things like that, Edwards, 
let's make it up and get along together. {He is 
obdurate and she approaches him coaxingly) Maybe 
Eve been too fresh. {He shozus signs of relenting 
and she smiles) Let's make it up and get along 
together. 

Edv/ards. Sure, v/e'U be friends, little one. {He 
grabs her and tries to kiss her. Site jerks azvay) 



14 COMMON CLAY 

Ellen. You old beast — You re the one who'll 
go now — do you think I'm going to stand for this? 
I'll tell — {She starts tozvard halkuay, hut Edwards 
greatly concerned blocks the way) 

Edwards. 'Ere, don't go on so — There's nothing 
to gain by telling. (Smiles) Lord, Miss Ellen, 
mums the word in such matters for 'igh and low. 
If I'd told all I've seen — nobody would be better 
oflf and many would be worse, including poor old 
Edwards. (His propitiating manner revealing him- 
self as an old groveler from long training, mollifies 
the girl) There now, you know I'm right, Miss 
Ellen. Keep things 'ushed up and there's no 'arm 
in them — sssh — Here comes someone — be moving 
those drinks — quick 

(Artie Coakley is coming down the stairway. 
Edwards points to decanter and glasses on 
table. He makes a hasty exit l. and leaves 
Ellen. She puts one tall glass on tray, which 
she holds, tJien hesitates and fumbles, uncer- 
tain which tray to use. Meanzuhile Coakley 
comes downstairs slozvly and uncertainly. 
Ellen has not seen him as yet. He is ap- 
parently intoxicated, tho' his movements are not 
exaggerated and his manner not boisterous. 
As he walks into the room he notices the tray 
and decanter and is so intent on them that he 
does not lift his eyes to the girl's face. He 
smiles and gives a sigh of relief, the sigh of a 
man whose next drink is his greatest problem — 
nozv solved. Coakley is a rather tall, slender 
man, very young in appearance zvith the zveakest 
of faces and the latest of evening clothes of the 
period. He swaggers with the air of a 
youngster who is always having a perfectly 
ripping time — a man of pleasure who doesn't 
care who knows he's drunk and dressed up. His 



COMMON CLAY 15 

only concern is that Ellen, zvho has her hack 
to him, may take azvay the drinks, so he speaks 
sharply as she takes hold of decanter.) 

CoAKLEY. Stop where you are, girl — {Snapping 
fingers, speaking oratorically) let those drinks lie. 

(Ellen, startled, turns to Coakley, then drops the 
tray zvith a bang and the glass breaks on 
floor.) 

Ellen. Artie Coakley, oh, my God! 

(Coakley looks at her a moment blinking, and then 
recognizes her.) 

Coakley. Little Ellen Neal — what the Hell are 
you doing here? 

Ellen. You're no more surprised than I am, 

Coakley. It takes a lot to surprise me when Fm 
drinking. {He pours out a drink hi small glass, 
tosses it off, smacks his lips, and holds the decanter 
by its neck, swinging it) God, I was dry. {Then 
points to broken glass) Better pick up that junk, 
girl. 

Ellen. Haven't you got the decency to help 
me — I don't see as you're so much better than I am. 
{Gets down on her knees) 

Coakley. Right you are, girl, and your little 
Artie is no proud child of Fortune — simple, unaf- 
fected — {She picks up the debris, puts it on tray) 
Yes, simple as a shepherd boy 

(Ellen rises and gives Coakley a contemptuous 
look.) 

Ellen. AVell, to think that you are in society. 
That gets me. {She puts the tray on table) 



i6 COMMON CLAY 

CoAKLEY. (Pouring drink) Gets you — why 
should it get you? Didn't I always tell you who I 
was? (Sips drink nonchalantly) 

Ellen. Every bum tells us that he is a society 
man. 

CoAKLEY. 'Tisn't what they tell you — girls like 
you mustn't fall for that stuff — but it's the way a 
man looks and acts that lets you know he's a gentle- 
man 

Ellen. (Sarcastically) But what if the gentle- 
man is generally drunk? 

Coakley. (Sipping drink) You can always tell 
a gentleman by the way he carries his liquor — 
(Pauses and swaggers) and Pm welcome in all 
kinds of society. 

Ellen. I don't believe you're making such a hit 
here. 

Coakley. (With lordly indifference) Tut, tut, 
little playmate, I don't want to make a hit here — 
It's the tamest affair / ever attended — (Pointing 
tipivard) Not a drop to drink upstairs. (Stroking 
decanter) I tried to drink enough before I came 
but — (Shakes his head, pouring another drink) 
that never v/orks. It throws me off my schedule 
if the drinks don't come at regular intervals. 
(Pauses) Then I hit the ceiling. {Puts down de- 
canter, holding drink in his hand) I came here to- 
night just to please mother. She's keen on the 
Fullertons. But personally I prefer society that's a 
bit more exciting. (Sips drink) I'd rather paint 
the town with a good little scout like you. (With 
an inspiration, enthusiastically) I tell you what 
lesh do — lesh get a sea-going hack and drive the 
old horse by the tail through an ocean of drinks. 
(He edges toward her smiling, still holding drink, 
and pecks at her lips with his) 

Ellen. You let m.e alone, x\rtie Coakley 

Coakley. (Surprised) You're a virtuous one 



COMMON CLAY 17 

all of a sudden — what's getting into you, little 
wayside wanderer ? 

Ellen. I'm straight— I am straight now— I tell 
you— {He smiles) And you've got to treat me that 
way. 

CoAKLEY. Back to the fold, eh? But can you 
come back? That'sh the question. Man can go 
straight— (Indicating a straight line with his finger) 
then crooked— (Mr^^m^ a meandering gesture with 
finger) then simght— {Another gesture) But 
woman — ah, IoyoXy woman — straight — {Gesture) 
or crooked — {Gesture) One or the^other. 

Ellen. It's net fair. 

CoAKLEY. {Shrugging shoulders and giving a 
gesture of dismissal) Nothing's fair— you think 
you 11 brace Mp—{Anti-climactically) and be a 
house-maid. {Laughs) What'sh the use— you 
won't be treated with respec' any more than if you're 
crooked— (Ellen winces) Facts— hard cold facts, 
girl— facts got to be looked in the face. So you're 
going to be an honset working girl— {Laughs) all 
nght-all nght-here's what you'll get, {Stands 
erect and snaps his fmgers) - Ellen, run upstairs 
and get Miss Anne's rubbers." {He makes motion 
With feet as of one running, pauses, and then 
imitates a jcmmine voice) " Put them on me, Ellen 
and do hurry or I'll miss half the first act." "And 
1^1 en, ^ see that iMr. Hugh's breakfast doesn't get 
cold— ne 11 sleep late this morninr." You come 
along with me-we'll leave this duU place without 
saying we ve nad a pleasant evening, which would 
be all a aamned ne. {He lurches tozvard Ellen, 
grabs her and kisses her, while she struqqles She 
breaks away and sends him reeling with a blow 
across the^ face. He staggers to table for support 
and steadies himself, glaring at her angrily) 

Ellen Do you think I was made to be hunted 
by a pack of little dogs like you? 



i8 COMMON CLAY 

CoAKLEY. (Angrily, as he strokes his face) 
You've come to be quite a tigress, eh — but what's the 
use of your getting gay with me — me — when you 
know that I know all about you 

(Hugh Fullerton, youthful, tall, handsome and 
athletic, comes down the stairway. He is of 
the manner which conies of being well-liked 
and of having his path made easy and free 
from struggle. He is conscious of his ad- 
vantages and position but not disagreeably so; 
in fact, they rather szveeten his nature, but give 
him the attitude of feeling that all that he de- 
sires he should reach out and take. Ellen ^^7^^ 
Hugh coming dozvn the stairzvay. She becomes 
nervous, grabs tray zvith broken glass, and 
makes a hasty exit, 7iot hozvever until Hugh 
has entered the room and discovered her dis- 
appearing through the door l. Hugh smiles 
and approaches Coakley.) 

Hugh. Hello — what's up? {Laughs) Don't 
mind me, I'm only the son of the house. You don't 
lose much time. I didn't even know she was in my 
home. I'll have to pin a rose on you, Art, as a 
discriminating pleasure seeker. 

Coakley. All I got was a slap in the face. 
(Hugh laughs) She's a little Hell-cat, Hugh. 

Hugh. {Lights a cigarette and smiles) Your 
trouble is right here. {He indicates the de- 
canter and glasses) You can't mix this stuif with 
women. But I'll admit you're a wizard, Art, 
mysteriously disappearing from the ball-room, leav- 
ing me to dance two dances with that heavy Burton 
girl while you come downstairs, lap up liquor and 
flirt with the housemaid. I like the way you make 
yourself at home. 



COMMON CLAY 19 

CoAKLEY. {Pouring a drink) Excellent whiskey 
— have one ? 

Hugh. Thank you — I may take just a wee one. 
{He seats himself, crosses his legs, holds up the 
decanter, of zvhiskey to the light and squints at it 
while CoAKLEY tosses off his drink) Ah, that's 
pretty, and look at the bead on it. (Hugh mixes a 
mild highball and sips it) 

CoAKLEY. (Wiping his month) Hugh, you're 
a good friend — not to get sore at the old souse — 
that's what I am — the acknov/ledged social souse — ■ 
There you are, playing with that liquor as a cat with 
a mouse, and here I charge it like a bull and go 
down in the fight. Same way with women — you'll 
never be caught. Everybody in towm knows about 
me and they've already closed the doors against me 
in some homes. I'm going down and you're just 
easing along, having your fling in a quiet way and 
never the v/orse for it. 

EIuGii. It's temiperance, old boy. Don't overdo 
the thing. (Sips drink) And "don't mix your 
crowds — You can't appear at the theatre with a live 
wire one evening and then expect the Winthrops or 
the Carters to have you to dinner the next. Why 
don't you brace up, old fellow? 

CoAKLEY. Hugh, there's a streak in my family — ■ 
you know that. It's born in me — I'm an alcoholic 
and a weakling about everything. (He reaches for 
the decanter, pouring another) 

Hugh. What were you saying to that new maid, 
Art? 

CoAKLEY. Oh, just talking over old times. 
(Rubbing his cheek) Nasty slap she gave me, damn 
her 

Hugh. Sssh ! 

CoAKLEY. I'll settle v/ith her — all I did was 
t' remind 'er of old days and she slapsh m'face. 

Hugh. You knew her before? 



20 COMMON CLAY 

CoAKLEY. Sure, she's a live little one — regular 
fellow — loafs around Bender's place. 

Hugh. {Surprised) A-round Bender's ! Are 
you sure? 

CoAKLEY. (Drinking again) Surest thing you 
know, son. (Music) Take the word of a seasoned 
old scout. She is the Belle of Bender's Dance Hall ; 
and here she bobs up like a bad dream and slaps my 
face like injured innocence. Damned insult for a 
woman like that to come into gentleman's house and 
slap faces of guests. (Rubs face) I'm a man of 
sensitive nature. 

(Ellen enters left zvith tray of ices. She passes 
through library, goes upstairs and exits up. 
She is self-cojiscious and embarrassed. 
CoAKLEY attends the decanter, but Hugh 
crosses nearly to stairs, looks at Ellen zvith 
youthful delight as site goes upstairs. Crosses 
to center then, dozvn left of table. Door slams. 
Music stops.) 

Hugh. (After Ellen's e.vif — enthusiastically) 
She's a peach! 

Coakley. (Waving hand) She*s yours — if you 
don't let her bluff you. (Hugh smiles at the pros- 
pect. Coakley approaches him and drunkenly pats 
his hands on Hugh's shoulders. His legs zvobble) 
Oh, I knov/ all about her. Little Artie v/as with her 
right from the start. And v/hat do you think she 
tried to tell me? 

Hugh. What? 

Coakley. (Laughing foolishly) Said she was 
straight — nozv. 

Hugh. (Considering) Maybe she wants to 
change her ways. 

Coakiey. (IVith conznction) Too late — it's 
been tried before. That'sh what I tried to tell her. 



21 

I tried to reason with her and to tell her that she 
can't brace up. An she slaps m' face. I tell you, 
Hugh Fuilerton, that a v/oman that slaps the face 
of kind hearted sensitive gent'man who'sh trying 
to talk reason to her — I tell you that woman who 
hurts the feelings of sens'tive man v/ill come to no 
good. Mark my words, Hugh, she'll come to no 
good. I'm hurt in the feelings, old mansh. Have 
strong desire to weep. (Coakley staggers, grabs at 
table, misses it and Hugh, laughing boyishly, catches 
him under the arm-pits as Coakley 'almost sits on 
the floor, and scats him in chair left of table, 
Coakley sits daced) 

Hugh. Sit steady in the boat, Artie. I'll run 
outdoors and find a cab for you and get you out 
before anyone sees you. 

(Coakley nods compliance.) 

Coakley. (Stupidly) You're a good fellow, 
Hugh. (Hugh exits through arch r. to front door) 
You're the frien' of every drinking-mansh. 

(Anne Fullerton enters coming dozvnstairs, call- 
ing.) 

Anne. Hugh, oh, Hugh. (Sees Coakley and 
approaches him, talking) Oh, Artie, why aren't 
you dancing? You must come upstairs and help 
me out. Edith Burton is stuck again. (Coakley 
blinks. Anne then realises he is drunk) Whv, 
Artie Coalde;/, what do you mean by this— in my 
house? (Goes front of table, Ipoking at Artie with 
peevish disgust) 

Coakley. (Rousing and smiling labcriouslv) 
Thash all right, Annie. Don't you worry, I'm all 
right. 



22 COMMON CLAY 

Anne. I'd hate to see my brother in your con- 
dition. 

(CoAKLEY looks Up zvith insimiating grin.) 

CoAKLEY. You won't — he'sh got sense nuff to go 
to Turk'sh bath — now wisht me it's different. 
(Laughs) But you mustn't be mad, Anne. Don't 
be peeved with the old souse. Somebody's got to get 
h't to make the party go — everybody's glad to see 
other feller's foot slip — makes 'em laugh — gives 'em 
gossip. Don't you worry because I got tide on — oh, 
what a tide. (Feels his head and yazvns, then 
drozvses off) 

Anne. {Crosses to foot of stairzvay as Ellen 
enters from stairzvay) Ellen, run upstairs quickly— 
(Ellen turns) and bring Mr. Coakley's hat and 
coat. 

Ellen. Yes, ma'am. 

Anne. Hurry now. (Ellen hastens upstairs 
and exits. Anne returns to Coakley and shakes 
him vigorously) Don't you go to sleep, Artie. 
Wake up, I say. 

Coakley. (Roused by the shaking, looking into 
her face, she on his left) How beautiful you are, 
my dear. (She is peeved — he pauses) You know, 
zvhiskey makes all women seem more beautiful. 
But I didn't dream that a woman could be so beauti- 
ful, Anne. 

Anne. Let's don't talk about that, Artie. 

Coakley. (Rising laboriously) Can't help it, 
m' dear. What man saysh when hesh drunk 's what 
he thinksh when hesh sober. How beautiful y'are, 
my dear. (Coakley grabs Anne's hand, she zvalks 
to right trying to break azvay. He gets his arm 
around her and tries to kiss her. Hugh enters r. 
and seizes Coakley. Ellen comes dozun stairzvay 
zvith silk hat, overcoat and cane in time to see 



COMMON CLAY 23 

Coakley's attempt to kiss Anne. Anne intervenes 
between Hugh and Coakley) 

Anne. Hugh, don't make a scene. Artie didn't 
realize what he did. 

(Hugh releases Coakley. Ellen hands Hugh 
hat zuhich he puts on Coakley far back on the 
head, then coat, which he throzvs over 
Coakley's shoulders. Coakley blinks, grad- 
ually taking in the situation. He takes cane 
proffered by Ellen, deriving a zvobbly support 
therefrom as he speaks.) 

Coakley. Gent'man of sens'tive nature knows 
what it means to have coat and hat put on him. I 
go — (Bows) and when I go there'sh one less'h gent'- 
man in this house — (Bows directly to Anne, hat in 
hand) Adieu, Mademoiselle, my mam.a tole m^e to 
say that'sh a very pleasant evening. But if you 
Vv'ant to know what I think, it's a damned tame 
party. {Exits r. staggering. A fall is heard in hall- 
way. Anne and Ellen look r. and listen. Hugh 
exits thru halkvay right, hastily) Thank sir, 

(The front door is heard to open and there is a 
voice out of doors.) 

Voice. (Off-stage) Keb sir — here you are, sir 
— keb sir. 

Hugh. (Off-stage) Here, take good care of 
him, cabby ! 

Cabby. Oh, I've had him before, sir. 

Coakley. A'right cabby — I gesh you know 
v/here to take gent'man after sh'ball ish over. 

Voice. Ay sir — nothin's too good for you, sir. 
]^,Iind the stair, sir. That's it. 

(The door slams and Hugh comes back. He and 



24 COMMON CLAY 

Anne look at each other, standing in the door- 
zvay. Anne pats Hugh on shoulder.) 

Anne. You've always been a good brother to 
me. 

Hugh. Pretty poor sort of man who wouldn't 
keep a fellow from insulting his sister. Artie had 
his nerve — trying to kiss you. 

(Ellen watches this performance zvith a curious 
interest and goes off through library l. As 
she exits at daor she zvipes her eye zvith the 
edge of her apron zvhich she gathers up. This 
is all unobserved by the brother and sister.) 

Anne. Didn't he though! A girl doesn't mind 
being kissed, but she does object to having a man 
think he can. 

Hugh. Well, none of them need think he can 
kiss you. 

(Ellen enters door l. Hugh gives her an in^ 
terested look. She crosses r. to table and be- 
gins to sort out the glasses, etc., on tray, stand- 
ing behind table.) 

Anne. (Tzvining her arm on Hugh's) Now 
Hugh, come on upstairs and dance with Edith 
Burton. (She starts toward stairzvay. He balks) 

Hugh. No, I won't. It's a worthy charity but 
I've suffered enough for the cause. {He looks at 
Ellen again zvith growing interest, disengages 
Anne's arm, and pats her shoulder) You run along 
and sic'ck Phil Benton on her. {She hangs back 
but he leads her to stairzvay and on to landing) 
Phil will eat out of your liand. (Anne seems 
pleased at this and goes upstairs) I'll be there in 
a few moments. {Exit Anne up. Plucn looks at 



COMMON CLAY 25 

Ellen, ivho has arranged tray and picked it up. 
Then he comes down to her, smiling. Ellen looks 
confused as he ncars her.) 

Hugh. (With a rather silly air) You're not 
afraid of me, are you? 

Ellen. (Greatly surprised and puzzled) Afraid 
of you? Not after the way you've just protected 
your sister. (Smiles) Why should I be afraid of 
vou 

Hugh. (Behind table) Not even v/hen you 
Sire—(He bends nearer io her. She has the tray in 
her hand and cannot push him off) under the 
misletoe? (He kisses her quickly. She does not 
move for a moment, da::ed. He drazvs away from 
her, smiling rather inanely. She is bewildered, con- 
fused but at length exclaims) 

Ellen. Oh— so you're just like all the rest of 
'em — (Slowly and in a dazed absent minded ivay) 
Just like all the rest of 'em. 

Hugh. (Superficially) Surely. I'm made of 
the same stuff as other men, and they all fall for 
you. You're a peach. 

Ellen. (Still as if dazed) So you— you are 
just like Edwards. 

Hugh. Edwards? 

Ellen. Yes— the butler— and Coakley— the 
drunk. (Pauses) I didn't think it of you. 

Hugh. Well, what sort of a boob do you think 
I am — I don't look a fellow who v/ould overlook 
anything, do I ? Especially anything as pretty as 
you are? (He starts toward her smiling. She 
avoids him, setting dozvn the tray on table zvith a 
rattle and bang, and getting the table between them 
she faces him zvith anger) 

Ellen. Oh, you're a pretty one — sending your 
drunken friend home for trying to kiss your sister, 
and then you turn right around and get fresh with 
me. Well, you can't do it. You've 



26 COMMON CLAY 

just as you treat those girls upstairs. If I had their 
money and their gowns, I'd be just as good as they 
are. Do you hear me, just as good as they are. 
(Ellen's comhativeness and anger rile Hugh a hit, 
hut he calms himself to calm her) 

Hugh. Oh, calm down a bit. I'm sorry. I was 
hasty. I think you'll find that I am a gentleman. 

Ellen. Yes, that is just what you are — a gentle- 
man. And to-night I've learned something about 
gentlemen. They will always protect their own 
women but they prey on the women of the poor. 

Hugh. I've never wronged a woman in my life ! 

Ellen. (Excitedly) No, but you're thankful 
for those that have already been wronged. 

Hugh. Quiet down a bit and let me explain. I 
didn't mean any harm. 

Ellen. Maybe you didn't and maybe you did. 
Maybe Coakley didn't mean any harm to Anne 
Fullerton. And maybe he did. (He begins to get 
angry. Her eyes flash and she raps the table quietly 
to emphasize her words and speaks in lozv tense 
tones as if to goad him into something like her ozvn 
anger) But I know that in both your heads there 
was the same thought. 

Hugh. (Glares at her a moment) Don't you 
dare mention Miss Anne in that way. (Lowering 
his voice for emphasis) And as for you — I know 
all about you. 

Ellen. What do you mean ? (She looks at him 
inquiringly and he looks knozvingly at her) You 
don't know anything about me. (She begins to 
realize that he does) Who's been talking to you? 
(Then with realization she cries out) Artie 
Coakley? (She looks at him for confirmation but 
he gives no intimation) What did he say about 
me? Was it Coakley? (He nods) Mr. Hugh, 
you're not going to tell, are you? 

Hugh. (Smiling at his advantage) No, what 



COMMON CLAY 2y 

would be the sense in my bothering you or in your 
bothering me — If we're going to be under the 
same roof, we may as well be friends. Don't worry, 
{^He gives her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. 
From above door is heard to open and the strains of 
*' Home Szveet Home'' ivalts float down. A 
shadozv as of a ivoman coming downstairs appears 
on wall. They hear, and he motions her azvay -with 
another reassuring tap on the back. Mrs. Fuller- 
ton appears on stairway and comes dozvn to land- 
ing, iinsuspicious from zvhat she sees, of anything 
passing between Hugh and Ellen) 

Mrs. Fullerton. Hugh, dear, I've been looking 
everywhere for you. They are all leaving, now. 

Hugh. Coming, Mother. (He joins her on 
landing) 

{" Home Szveet Home " dies down in ball-room and 
the guests dressed for street come dozvnstairs. 
There is a great deal of laughter as the guests 
file by Mrs. Fullerton, Anne, Hugh, and 
Mr. Fullerton, who stand in line saying good- 
night, ad lib, "' Thank you for a perfectly 
charming evening " , " The best dance of the 
season " , etc. The Fullertons thank their 
guests for liking it, zvhile off-stage out-doors, 
is a bedlam of chugging automobiles, and 
through the library zvindows the flash of head- 
lamps from the street. Outside the policeman s 
voice can be heard calling, " Mrs. Carter's car." 
''Mrs. Semple's." "Mr. James Scott's ma- 
chine." " Mr. Van Dyck's carriage." " Cab 
for Mr. Sinton." '' Cab for Miss Overton." 
" Taxi." One or tzvo of the male guests take a 
drink. Ellen and Edwards are dashing about 
in hallzvay holding coats and zvraps for guests. 
After guests all exit- right and everything is 



28 COMMON CLAY 

quiet, and the servants exit l., Mrs. Fullerton 
comes dozvn l. of table.) 

Mrs. Fullerton. Well, I think everything went 
off beautifully. 

Fullerton. Your parties are always successful, 
dear. 

Hugh. Indeed they are, Mother. (He puts his 
arm around Jiis mother and kisses her) Good-night. 

Mrs. Fullerton. Good-night, my boy. 

Anne. Good-night, Hugh. (She kisses her 
father, who pats her) And good-night. Dad. 

Fullerton. Good-night, good-night. (The two 
women go up and off and Fullerton turns to 
Hugh) Well, Hugh, a very pleasant evening. The 
mother and Anne are retiring, and I'll follow. 
(Reaches landing) 

Hugh. I think I'll sit awhile and smoke a cigar- 
ette. Dad. 

Fullerton. A little late, my son. 

Hugh. I'll be up presently. 

Fullerton. (Stops, turns) When do you go 
back to college? 

Hugh. To-morrov/ evening — my train leaves at 
six-thirty. 

Fullerton. Ah, so soon. \Vell, you'll need 
money. 

Hugh. No — no — oh, no — (They both laugh. 
Fullerton comes dozvn to FIugh) 

Fullerton. Come to the office at one to-morrow 
and we'll fix you up. 

Hugh. Father, you haven't any small change 
about you now, have you? 

Fullerton. (Laughing) And then we'll lunch 
together at the City Club. 

Hl^gh. Thank you, sir, I'll be there — at one 
o'clock. 

Fullerton. At lunch I want you to get better 



COMMON CLAY 29 

acquainted with the older men — the substantial 
business men — for you must bear in mind, that as 
soon as you get back next fall from your yachting 
trip, you must take up the management of the estate. 
Good-night. {Pats Hugh on hack) 
Hugh. Good-night, Dad. 

(FuLLERTON cxits ^ipstcirs and his footsteps are 
heard off-stage. Hugh lights a cigarette.) 

Anne. {Off-stage) Ellen, Ellen! (Ellen 
enters from hall and starts up stairs. As Hugh, 
hearing her coming turns off lights in library) 
Ellen, please bring my breakfast to my room at 
eleven. 

Ellen. {Peeved, remembering Coakley's re- 
mark) Yes, ma'am. (Ellen comes downstairs 
and turns out lights in hall. Hugh goes to door l. 
ajid stands. Room is nozv lighted by lamp and fire- 
glow. Ellen pulls dozvn curtain of zvindow r., 
straightens chair, picks up tray and starts l. Hugh 
conies tozvard her. She is surprised) 

Hugh. {Hesitatingly) Ellen, if you don't un- 
derstand how to go about getting Miss Anne's 
breakfast, ask Edwards to tell you. 

Ellen. Yes, sir. {Starts to pass Hugh. He 
blocks her, playing for time) 

Hugh. And if he's uncivil in the morning, let 
m.e know. (Ellen looks at Hugh in frank sur- 
prise, and he by way of explanation continues 
hesitatingly) You see, I know Edwards. He is 
very servile to those above him, but he is often dis- 
courteous to those over whom he is placed. {He 
catches himself, realising suddenly that he is prob- 
ably guilty of the offense of zvhich he accuses the 
Butler) But I don't want you to think that Pm 
that way. I'm sorry for Vv^hat happened this even- 
ing — since I've had timx to think it over — and I 



30 COMMON CLAY 

want to show you that I will treat you with the 
same respect that Fd show to anyone else. {He 
sits) 

Ellen. You can't do it, Mr. Hugh. 

Hugh. Why not? 

Ellen. Because I've become a servant. 

Hugh. Why — err — one may have respect for a 
servant. 

Ellen. No, sir, because respect is not some- 
thing you can hand out like a sack of potatoes. You 
can't gk'c it, you can only sJiozv it — by not making 
a servant address you so as to show that she's not 
as good as you are — and by not sitting down when 
you make her stand 

Hugh. (Jumps up, stands uncomfortably, fidgets 
and tJien flops dozvn again, perplexed) Oh, I say, 
Ellen, that's all quite impossible. 

Ellen. Of course it is — I don't blame you. But 
I've just learned an awful truth to-night. I've 
learned that a woman of the streets can get about as 
much respect as a woman who makes her living in 
jobs like this one of mine. It's not so much zvhat 
you do as hozv much you make by doing it that gives 
you power in this world. 

Hugh. (With inspiration) Do you mean that? 

Ellen. I can't get away from it. 

Hugh. It does sound reasonable. You're wise. 

Ellen. Experience is the best teacher. (Crosses 
left) 

Hugh. Wait a minute — hold on — I've a lot more 
to say to you. (Rises and takes tray from her. 
The fire-glozv lights their features strongly) Do 
you know I like you. You interest me and you are 
beautiful. And I have a feeling that you like me. 
Don't you? (He takes her hand, she hangs her 
head and zvithdrazvs hand) 

Ellen. What makes you think that ? 

Hugh. Oh, I don't think it — I just feel it. I 



COMMON CLAY 31 

felt it when you became so angry at me, and then 
subsided in time to keep my mother from seeing us 
together. You do — like me, don't you? 

Ellen". I suppose so. 

Hugh. Why? 

Ellen. Does any girl know why she likes a man? 
I've seen them fall for some awful pills. 

Hugh. (Starting) But I'm not that! 

Ellen. I can't say just why I took a fancy to 
you. I've always fancied you. I've often wished 
that I could have had a chance to know you as those 
girls who were at your party know you. To meet 
you in that way. That's why I thought about thejn 
when I was angry. 

Hugh. (Surprised) But you never did know of 
me — until now. 

Ellen. Yes, I've seen you driving around town 
in your car and I've read about you playing foot- 
ball, and seen your pictures in the pape^rs — and your 
sister's name and yours are always in the society 
column. 

Hugh. You keep up with things, eh? 

Ellen. (Enthnsiastically) Surely. I've often 
read about the parties and what girls were there and 
what they v^^ore, and then I would just imagine that 
I was there and I've talked to them all until it 
seemed real. I almost called your sister '' Anne '* 
right to her face to-night and you— you have always 
been a sort of hero of mine. 
Hugh. (Pleased) You have a great imagination. 

Ellen. (Simply) I'm not trying to jolly you — 
I know it wouldn't do me any good. I'm just trying 
to explain how it is that I can like you, even when 
I'm nothing to you. It puzzles me. Mavbe it's 
because I realize how little I count for and how 
much you count for in this city. Maybe it's be- 
cause you're so manly looking and handsome and big 
and strong. And it's funny, too— as big and strong 



32 COMMON CLAY 

and as able to take care of yourself as you are, there 
are so many persons and so many things helping to 
take care of you. This nice, warm house is one of 
the things that shelter you. This is the first time I 
ever was in a place like this. Now I know what they 
mean by saying that there is no place like home. 
(JVith an amused bitterness, suddenly) Where do 
you suppose I was a week ago to-night? 

Hugh. I don't know. Where? 

Ellen. In jail? 

Hugh. In jail? How did you gti there? 

Ellen. It's easy enough when you know how. 
Do you know Bender's Dance Hall, the Elysian? 

Hugh. Well, rather. It was raided by the police 
a few nights ago while I was on my way there with 
a bunch of fellovv^s. It was lucky we didn't get there 
earlier. 

Ellen. It wouldn't have made any difference 
with you. They let all the men go — they always do. 
But they backed up a patrol vvagon and took all 
the girls to the station — and locked us up. I nearly 
died I was so frightened. I couldn't sleep all night 
— not a wink. And while I sat up there in a cell, a 
white patch of moonlight came through the bars of 
the window onto the floor, and a rat came out in the 
moonlight and stood on its haunches and looked at 
me with its little beady eyes, and shook its av/ful 
little whiskers as much as to say, " Well, my goil, 
welcome to the dump — for we're both on the dump, 
you know — we're trash, both of us, nothing but 
trash — and we've been swept out onto the dump 
when the house-cleaning came." And in the morn- 
ing they jerked me up in Police Court and the Judge 
told me that as this was the first appearance for me, 
I could go. He was a kind man — (Lowering her 
voice) for a judge. He asked me to wait in his 
office, and when court v/as over he talked with me, 
asked me about my father and mother, and said 



COMMON CLAY 33 

he'd help me to get away from bad company. He 
called up on the 'phone and sent me to a woman 
who get3 jobs for girls. Told her she just must 
help me. I went to her office and Edwards came 
there, looked a lot of us over, and said he'd take a 
chance on me because J^.Irs. Fullerton wanted a 
housemaid who had some style to her. 

Hugh. Edwards has a good eye. 

Ellen. Anyway, I got the job. I didn't want to 
be a housemaid, but I remembered what the Judge 
told me about getting away from bad company, and 
I knew you were good people — the Fullertons. So 
here I am — in good company — in one of our best 
homes. {Looks at Hugh signif.cantly. He seems 
confused and at a loss) 

Hugh. {After a pause) If you think in that 
way, you'll become hard and bitter. {With inspira- 
tion) God made us what we are. 

Ellen. {Slozvly) People like you blame a lot of 
things on God. (Hugh looks at her puzzled. Ellen 
continues, slozvly and meditatively, and Hugh moves 
nearer, cautiously trying to get his arm around her) 
Well, I don't know zvho to blame it on, but I do 
know that when I came here to-night to work and be 
right, I didn't get any more respect than when I 
was going it wrong. It's more who we are than 
what we do that makes us good people or bad 
people. {She leans forvuard zvith her chin in her 
hand and her elbozvs on her knees looking into the 
fire-glozv. Her voice grozvs lozuer but more tense 
and perfectly distinct as she gives a sigh of zveari- 
ness) All I've got to say is '' What's the use? " 

{He throzvs cigarette in the fire and drazvs her to 
him closer and regards her quizzically and un- 
comprehendingly as 

The curtain falls 



34 COMMON CLAY 



ACT II 

Scene: The follozving October — a bright morning. 
The scene is laid in the private office of 
Samuel Filson, attorney at law. There are 
entrances right and left. Door stage left is 
marked " Mr. Filson, Private " , the letters be- 
ing painted on off-stage side of the zvhitened 
glass. Door stage right is marked " Library '\ 
letters on stage side. There are pictures on the 
walls of Blackstone, and other legal celebrities^ 
a framed copy of Magna Charta, the Declara- 
tion of Independence, and a photograph of the 
Supreme Court of the United States. There is 
a large table -desk in center and a revolving 
chair behind same placed so that Judge Filson 
faces the audience. On this table is a telephone 
and numerous papers, lazv books, documents, 
writing material, a large ivory paper-cutter, etc. 
In one corner of room a golfer's bag and clubs 
stands against walls. There are several chairs 
and a hat-and-coat stand, up from left door. 
The furnishings, etc., are such as to indicate a 
very orderly and prosperous law office and the 
quiet good taste of its occupant. 

There is a very large zvindow in three frames, 
taking up most of the rear zvall, through which 
can be seen the tops of houses, trees zvith scant 
autumn-colored foliage, skyscrapers, spires, 
etc., typical of the birdseye landscape of a 
middle zvestcrn American city of the first class. 
The morning sunshine is evident. But most 
conspicuous in the out-of-doors through this 
window there appears a broad winding river, on 
the banks of which the city is built. This river 
dominates the view. Bridge in distance. 



COMMON CLAY 35 

At rise : Judge Filson, a well-dressed, impressive 
man well along in his fifties, is seated at Jiis 
desk consulting law books and tnaking notes. 
He seems to enjoy his zvork, taking it easily, as 
a finished scholar and gentleman who has ac- 
quired the habit of winning his cases at lazv 
and of exercising a quiet, unobtrusive, half- 
jesting authority in his relations with his fellozv- 
man. His face and the play of his features 
show the capacity for every phase of human 
emotion. He is as a man zvho has lived much 
and learned as he lived. His voice is lozv and 
clear and full — rounded and controlled by years 
of public speaking. 

As Filson is engaged at his zvork. Miss 
Warren, iJie stenographer, opens the door left. 
Filson is preoccupied until she speaks with her 
hand on the knob of tJie door. 

Miss Vv'arren. Mr. Fullerton is here, sir. 

Filson. So soon — show him right in. (Fuller- 
ton brushes by Miss Warren, zvho exits, closing 
door. Fullerton is greatly concerned and troubled 
in his manner and expression) Aha, Dickey boy, 
a great day this — (Noticing Fullerton's expres- 
sion his ozvn changes to one cf puzdement) Why 
Dick, what's the matter? 

Fullerton. It's my bo}^ — my Hugh. 

Filson. {Concerned) What ails him? 

Fullerton. (Tensely) He's mixed up with a 
wom.an. 

Filson. A woman eh? Well I wouldn't be too 
hard on the boy, Dick. Any young fellow's likely 
to have his fling — you did — I did 

Fullerton. (Impatiently) Hard on him — 
Certainly not ! You've got to help us out, Sam. 

Filson. You know Fl do that, Dick. Is it any- 
thing very serious? 



36 COMMON CLAY 

FuLLERTON. {Nodduig assent) The woman 
claims he's the father of her child, 

FiLSON. U'um — ugly. {Hesitatingly) Any — 
eer — truth in it? 

FuLLERTON. Truth in it — of course not. The 
girl was simply a servant in our house. 

FiLSON. (Almost amused) It's a physical 
possibility. 

FuLLERTON. But this is blackmail — pure black- 
mail. (Excitedly) Just a frame-up on us because 
we have money — can't you see? 

FiLSON. Does she ask for money? 

FuLLERTON. (Pacing excitedly) I have not seen 
her — neither has Hugh. He's just come home from 
abroad. She's been trying to get to see him but 
I don't want the boy bothered — it won't do — it can't 
be — a splendid young fellow like Hugh — just 
graduated from college last June with honors — 
made all sorts of friends there too — influential 
wealthy people — now when he comes home to settle 
down and m.anage the estate here comes along this 
little hussy to blackmail him — to put a blot on our 
family name. There ought to be a law to protect 
the sons of gentlemen from such scum 

FiLSON. And perhaps there should be a law to 
protect such scum from the sons of gentlemen. 
(Pause) Yes, yes, it's too bad Dick, but for good- 
ness sake calm down and tell me the story. Fll have 
to know it accurately. 

FuLLERTON. (Scats himsclf left of desk) Well, 
when Hugh was home from college on his vacation 
last Christmas this girl came to our house to work. 
She was pretty and young — they say — I don't re- 
member her and I doubt if Hugh would know her 
if he saw her — and well Sam it's just the old story 
of a healthy active young fellow sowing his wild 
oats and falling into a trap. 



CO^nIMON clay 37 

FiLSON. (c.) Hugh admits his relations with 
her, then? 

FuLLERTON. Well — eer — yes — but you can't 
blame the boy. Under the circumstances it was a 
perfectly natural thing for him to do. 

FiLSON. Yes and under the circumstances it was 
a perfectly natural thing for the girl to become a 
mother. (Filson notes a disapproving look on 
Fullerton's face and he hastens to explain) You 
see, Dick, we've got to look at this thing from all 
its angles. But what does she claim and Vv'hat does 
she want? 

FuLLERTON. She has been making persistent de- 
mands to see Hugh — I wouldn't let him see her, and 
now she's gone to a lawyer. He called me up just 
now and said if I didn't see him to-day there would 
be trouble. I've referred him to you. And I think 
he'll be here with the girl in a few minutes. You 
must settle with him, Sam. Do you hear. This 
thing must he hushed up. 

Filson. You think they'll want money? 

FuLLERTOX. What else could they want? 

Filson. Who's her lawyer? 

FuLLERTON. His name is Yates — I don't know 
him. 

Filson. I do — (Significantly) they'll take the 
money. 

FuLLERTON. We'll havc to give them what they 
ask for I suppose to keep the thing hushed up — but 
it is an outrage, isn't it? 

Filson. I suppose so, Dick, but it's a thing that's 
likely to happen as long as what woman is taught 
to look on as her highest duty is looked on by man 
as his most popular form of amusement. (Rises, 
walks to ivindozv, stands sidezvise to audience, finger- 
ing cord on zvindozv shade and dreamily looking out 
at the river) 

FuLLERTON. (Gaspiug) What! What's that! 



38 COMMON CLAY 

(Pauses and grows calmer) You ought to ap- 
preciate what this means to me, Sam, not only as 
my lawyer, but as my friend. (Turns, looks at 
Filson) What are you dreaming of, Sam? 

FiLSON. I'm wondering, Dick — (Pauses) Vm 
wondering if I can as your friend, and not as your 
lawyer, make a suggestion to you. 

FuLLERTON. Certainly Sam. 

Filson. If Hugh really is the father of her 
child why don't you have him marry her. 

FuLLERTON. (Jumping up and pacing the room) 
What? my boy marry that woman — who came off 
the streets into our house as a servant. Sam, you're 
mad. 

FiLSON. Wait a bit, Dick. (Coynes down and 
the two stand by desk) If you won't let Hugh 
make his child legitimate then you prove that what 
you call morality is not as important as certain 
social distinctions. 

FuLLERTON. I ncvcr heard such wild talk in my 
life. 

FiLSON. The truth is often wild when spoken at 
the critical moment — (Sits in his desk chair, picks 
up paper-cutter and points at Fullerton for 
emphasis) Dick, there are only two real problems 
in human life — the problem of sex and the problem 
of property — by the one we come into existence, by 
the other we exist — yet to attempt to deal with 
either in a way that really counts is to be considered 
indecent or dangerous. (Pauses) Now it occurs to 
me that here is a chance to do a big thing — the 
biggest thing that any man can do — to sacrifice 
what we call respectability to what we know is 
justice — (Pauses, looking into the eyes of Fuller- 
ton, who seems dumfounded) Do you under- 
stand ? 

Fullerton. (Seating himself left, and speaking 



COMMON CLAY 39 

ill charitable contempt) Can't say that I do. I 
always thought that you were a sensible man, Sam. 

FiLSON. You wrong me there, Dick. As a mat- 
ter of fact, I'm not nearly so sensible and sane a 
man as people think. I now and then have ideas — 
just as the other fools do — but I've generally been 
able to stifle these ideas before they brought me to 
harm — and once I was saved from one of these 
mad notions by the self-sacrifice of a woman — {He 
lotvers his voice) I expect that's why I happened 
to make this foolish suggestion — She was just 
such a woman as the one in this case, perhaps. Go 
back to your innocent youthful days, Dick — you 
may remember her — they called her Dolly Montrose. 
(FiLSON eyes Fullerton closely) 

FuLLERTON. That woman — she 

FiLSON. Oh, you do remember? 

Fullerton. Yes, eer — vaguely — she sang in a 
dance-hall. 

FiLSON. (Nodding) Where we spent many in- 
nocent youthful hours — ah, happy days ! 

Fullerton. Oh, hang it, Sam, don't throw my 
wild oats into my face at a time like this. (Pauses) 
But I remember that woman — rather vivid type — • 
full of life 

FiLSON. Do you remember her end ? 

Fullerton. Can't say that I do — I've forgotten 
all the shady things, Sam. When I married I closed 
the book. 

FiLSON. She killed herself. 

Fullerton. Yes? Women of that kind often 
do, don't they? It's one way of solving their 
problem 

FiLSON. She drowned herself — Dick — on ac- 
count of me. 

Fullerton. What's that? 

FiLSON. Dick, there's something in my life that's 
been hushed up — just as you want this matter 



40 COMMON CLAY 

hushed up for your son — and it was the woman 
who hushed it tip for me. It cost her life to do 
it but she did it so well that to-day I am the only 
living soul who knows my secret. And I'm going 
to tell it to you. 

FuLLERTON. You may trust me, Sam. 

FiLSON. Do you remember what I was doing 
twenty years ago? 

FuLLERTON. (Thinking) Why you were mak- 
ing your race for Congress. 

FiLSON. Yes, and before that — a long time be- 
fore that — I had met this woman, Dolly Montrose. 
I have one thing in my nature, Dick, which is a great 
hindrance to any man who wants to get along in 
this world. 

FuLLERTON. Flindrance — what? 

FiLSON. A great feeling of pity. (Fullerton 
looks for an explanation) You may call it that or 
you may call it a sense of justice or too much 
sympathy, but these are things that go together and 
things that a man must get rid of if he'd go to the 
top. They made it easy for me to fall in love with 
a woman that other men took for a plaything. 

Fullerton. Nonsense, Sam. You're talking 
wildly again. A man can have no real attachment 
for such a woman. 

Filson. a man like you can't — you're too 
civilized. But I could and did, find real congeniality 
in this woman. For where a man like you would 
see her lack of education I could see that she had 
great natural abilities and talents. Where others 
noted that she spoke ungrammatically I could see 
that she said things worth listening to. And she 
sang — (Grows more enthusiastic) Don't you re- 
member how she sang in Lynch's dance-hall ? 

Fullerton. (Smiling cynically) Yes, such 
songs as "When the roses sing in Western Penn- 



COMMON CLAY 41 

sylvania and the robins bloom in Central Tenn- 
essee " 

FiLSON. Ah, but she had a real voice — a natural 
voice full of melody and sweetness and sympathy. 
There was a thrill to it. And the sympathy that 
was in her voice was in her nature. And there was 
Joy about her too. Few persons are capable of real 
enjoyment even if the chance of it comes their way 
but here was one who radiated joy where the op- 
portunities for it were practically denied her; who 
bristled with talent and had no chance to develop it. 
One caught the spirit of her gayety — it was irresis- 
tible even when you knew how tragic v/as her life, 
and the hopelessness of it all appealed to my sense 
of pity. I may have been a fool — but I fell for 
her. I found that I would rather be with her than 
with anyone else in the world and as time went on, 
and you and all the rest of our friends married and 
settled down to lead the lives of the pure in heart — 
(FuLLERTON wifices) I found that I simply couldn't 
give this woman up. I saw her constantly for 
several years. She gave up everything and every- 
one for me 

FuLLERTON. And none of us ever knew anything 
of the life you were leading. 

FiLSON, It would seem not — and I drifted along 
with her until one day just before the Congressional 
election, when I was making the big fight of my 
life, she told me that she was about to become a 
mother 

FuLLERTON. My God, how did you keep it all so 
quiet ? 

FiLSON. She was the one who kept it quiet. 

FuLLERTON. How did you get her to do it ? 

FiLSON. I didn't think of that — I asked her to 
marry me. (Fullerton looks at Filson incredu" 
loiisly) And she refused. 

Fullerton. Refused I 



42 COMMON CLAY 

FiLSON. (Nodding) Yes, — said she'd be wreck- 
ing my life. She was a real zvoman. I helped to 
make her so, thank God, by treating her as such, 
and when it came to the supreme moment she did 
what women do so well — she sacrificed herself. 
(FiLSON pauses a moment and the two ineyi look 
each at the other) 

FuLLERTON. But wliat became of the child? 

FiLSON. (Slozuly and distinctly) The child was 
never born (Pauses) for before that could happen 
the body of Dolly Montrose was found floating in 
the river below the city. (He takes from his inner 
vest pocket a leather case and from that a letter 
folded and creased) She m.ailed m.e this note be- 
fore she drowned herself. (He reads aloud — his 
voice and hand trembling) 

" When you get this note, Sam, FlI be dead. T 
won't pull you down with m.e, and I hope you will 
take the chance I am giving you to go on up. Now 
don't act like a fool and give the thing away for it 
will be too late to do me any good. I v/ant to repay 
you for v/anting to be straight with me and this is 
the best way I know how. Good-bye, 

DOLLY MONTROSE. 

P. S. I want you to go to the top." 

(FuLLERTON takes the note from hijii, looks at it, 
then shakes his head and speaks reflectively in 
a lozv tone, deeply moved.) 

FuLLERTON. It's a queer world. (He hands the 
note back to Filson, zvho puts it into the leather 
case and back into the pocket zvhence he took it) 

FiLSON. And I doubt if we can draw the line 
very sharply between the good ones and the bad 
ones in it. (Filson rises and vualks to zvindozv 



COMMON CLAY 43 

looking out at river. Fullerton turns his head to- 
zvard Filson and speaks argitmentatively) 

Fullerton. Weil, you took advantage of the 
chance the woman gave you — and went to Congress, 
then became Chief Justice of this State, and are 
now its leading lawyer. Where would you have 
been if you had married that woman in the case — as 
you w^ant my boy to do? 

Filson. (Thoughtfully) Instead of being here 
— the prosperous hired man of the right kind of 
people I'd probably be out there in the street of 
evenings mounted on a soap-box, shrieking anathema 
at the things and the powers that be — but there 
might have been an embittered satisfaction in hav- 
ing lost all in attem^pting to right a social wrong 
to take the place of the w^ell-being v/hich came with 
hiding it. Dick, it seemed to me after that incident 
in my life that success came by evading issues 
rather than by facing them 

Fullerton. Nonsense. You've been a fighter, 
Sam, for decency, for respectability, and law and 
order. 

Filson. (Smiling sardonically, and zvalking 
about the room making gestures as he speaks) Yes, 
Dickey-boy, I've always fought for the things that 
no man can lose by supporting — law and order, 
decency and respectability, and all such vague gen- 
eralities as stir the spirits of school-boys and keep 
men from thinking. (^Pauses and hozvs to Full- 
erton) But I shall come back to earth. {Seats 
himself at desk) Now I am ready, as a lawyer 
should ever be, to do the work we're here for. 
(Filson zvipes his brow) Let's get down to busi- 
ness — he who bolsters up his case is able to make 
the best settlement. 

Fullerton. (Rising) Good — I've always felt 
that I could depend on you at the show-down, Sam. 



44 COMMON CLAY 

Now Hugh is outside with a friend of his — who 
knows something of this girl's past. 

FiLSON. Good — there's nothing that gets more 
attention in Court than a woman's past. 

FuLLERTON. But I caution you, Sam, under no 
circumstances does this get into court. We want to 
settle right here. 

FiLSON. (Nodding) I understand. 

FuLLERTON. And, Sam, don't put on a long face 
with my boy — to make him think he's a criminal 

FiLSON. I understand. Fll simply treat the 
matter lightly — one of my professional touches, 
Dick — making little over much and much over little. 
Show them in. 

(FuLLERTON crosscs, opciis dooT left, and calls out.) 

FuLLERTON. Step in here, son. 

(Hugh Fullerton, Jr., enters, follozved by 
CoAKLEY. Both are very well dressed, espe- 
cially Coakley, ivho remains near the hat- 
rack, on which he hangs his hat and crook- 
handled cane. As Filson greets Hugh, 
Coakley stands near left door, lighting cigar- 
ette.) 

FiLSON. (Making light of the matter) Well, 
Hugh. (Rises and shakes hands) Glad to see you 
back from over the pond — but what's this I hear 
(Smiling) you young rascal — running with a woman, 
were you? 

Hugh. Yes, Judge, I came home to find trouble 
awaiting me. 

Filson. I'm very sorry. 

Hugh. Fm sorry, too — sorry for the girl if her 
claim can be true. I don't want you to think hard 
of me, Judge. I do the things that other men do. 



COMMON CLAY 45 

but I've made it a rule of my life never to harm a 

good woman 

FuLLERTON. It's the code of all the Fullerton 

men ! ! 

(CoAKLEY seems half puzzled — half amused.) 

Hugh. And I've lived up to it. Before I spoke 
a word to that girl I knew that she had a past. 
And here's a man by whom I can prove it. (Turn- 
ing toward Coakley introdiicforily) You ought to 
know Artie Coakley, Judge Filson. 

FiLSON. I know his father very well. (They 
shake hands) 

Coakley. (Excitedly) Well, for God's sake 
don't mention any of this to him, Judge. 
FiLSON. Certainly not, Mr. Coakley. 
Coakley. It isn't that he'd jump on me. Judge-— 
you know the old gentleman — there's a streak in him 
that runs into me and every time I get into a scrape 
he blames himself, Judge — says nothing, just suffers 
like the damned. 

FiLSON. (Sympathetically) Oh, yes, I see. 
Coakley. I told Hugh that if he could be sure 
not to let the matter get into court I would be will- 
ing to say here what testimony I could give — in a 
pinch. 

FiLSON. (Reassuringly) Oh, we will settle it 
out of court — but the best way to keep a case out of 
court is to show the other side your strength in 
court. 

Fullerton. When Coakley tells what he knows 
she won't dare go into Court. (He turns and 
addresses Hugh) But my son, you'd better get 
out now\ That girl and her lawyer will be here and 
there's nothing to be gained by your seeing her. Is 
there, Sam? 



46 COMMON CLAY 

FiLSON. Hardly — there was not much gained by 
his seeing her at first. 

Hugh. But I want to see her, Dad. Here's a 
woman setting up all sorts of claims on me. 

FuLLERTON. Fm not going to see her. Nor must 
you. 

FiLSON. Your father's right, Hugh. 

Hugh. Well, Fll go — {He turns to Coakley and 
shakes hands) Thanks awfully old chap for back- 
ing me up in this. It's awfully decent of you. 
{Opens door) Good-bye — and good luck. {Exit 
Hugh left. Filson motions the others to seats and 
sits back of desk. Coakley sits left of desk. Full- 
ERTON draws up a chair and sits right of desk) 

Filson. Mr. Coakley, what can you tell us con- 
cerning this girl, Miss — eer — what is her name? 

Fullerton. She calls herself Ellen Neal. 

Coakley. Yes, that's her name. Judge, I know 
all about her. It's true that for more than a year 
before Hugh ever saw her she wasn't straight. 

Fullerton. Just a common blackmailer, you see. 

Coakley. I can't think of her doing anyone a 
dirty trick, somehow. 

Fullerton. Nonsense, a v/oman of that sort will 
do anything. 

Coakley. She wouldn't. You see it was the 
things outside of herself that forced her where she 
is — and with me — {Pauses and continues ruefully) 
well, it was something inside that made such a rotter 
of me. It was born into me — and she was born 
into it. You might say that I was responsible for 
her downfall. {He grows nervous under the inter- 
ested gazes of the others) I didn't mean to do it — 
I didn't want to be a rotter any more than she did. 

Filson. I'm sorry for you both, Mr. Coakley. 
I think I can understand. But did this girl frequent 
improper places? 

Coakley. I wouldn't say that she frequented such 



COMMON CLAY 47 

places. I met her in Bender's dance hall— and— 
(Hesitates) But I want it understood that we are 
not going to get into court. 

FiLSON. {Reassuringly) I'm not going to let 
the case get into court— if you'll tell me enough to 
keep the girl out of court. 

CoAKLEY. Well then— I took her to 916 Maple 
Street. 

FuLLERTON. What's that? 
CoAKLEY. 916 Maple Street. 
FuLLERTON. Arc you sure of that number? 
CoAKLEY. You ought to know — you own the 
property! (Smiling sardonically) Yes, it's the 
place that Daisy Lloyd runs — all the comforts of 
home and a few additional privileges. (Fullerton 
fidgets uneasily) How much rent does Daisy pay 
you every month for the house, Mr. Fullerton? 
Fullerton. You can't hold me responsible for 

what goes on in houses that I rent out 

Coakley. Especially if it m.akes the rent larger. 
Fullerton. (Rises, infuriated) That's enough 
from you, sir. I don't propose to be twitted^ by 
a little degenerate like you, — a man who has just 
admitted that he's responsible for a woman's down- 
fall. (Sits) 

Coakley. (Calmly) But think how many more 
downfalls I would be responsible for if I drew the 
rent from that house — as you do. You know, the 
difference between us is, you deal in downfalls by 
the wholesale and I'm only a little retailer who has 
to give his personal attention to each job. (Full- 
erton fumes and Filson represses a smile. 
Coakley blozvs rings of smoke and squints at them 
while calmly delivering himself of a bit of philos- 
ophy) It's a queer civilization, isn't it, where the 
best citizens, simply by sitting still and taking 
profits can be m.ore potent factors in vice and crime 



48 COMMON CLAY 

than the worst little degenerates. Something's 
wrong. 

FuLLERTON. (Goaded by the other's calm) See 
here, I won't stand this. (He rises and advances 
on CoAKLEY, but FiLSON rises and comes between 
just as the door left opens and Miss Warren 
enters, closing it behind her. Fullerton calms 
down) 

Miss Warren. Judge Filson, there's a girl to 
see you — and her lawyer (Looks at card) " W. H. 
Yates." (Hands card to him) 

Fullerton. Don't let the girl in till I get out! 

P^iLSON. (To Miss Warren) One moment. 
(To Coakley) Coakley, you step in that room, 
(Indicating r. Coakley rises) and wait until I call 
you. I want you to confront the girl at the psycho- 
logical moment. 

(Coakley starts tozvard door right, pauses and 
speaks.) 

Coakley. I feel like a dog — telling on that girl. 

Fullerton. (Standing right of desk) It's your 
duty and you're only telling the truth. 

Coakley. But I was reared a gentleman and 
there's one thing that a gentleman is always in- 
structed to lie about — that is the honor of a woman 
— no matter zvhat the woman does. 

Fullerton. I know — eer — but it does matter 
7vho the woman is. 

(Coakley looks at Fullerton and a sardonic flash 
of realisation comes across his features.) 

Coakley. That fortifies me to do my worst. 
(E.rit Coakley, right) 

Filson. Now, Dick — keep your head — ^this fel- 
low Yates is a shyster. We can settle anything with 



COMMON CLAY 49 

him if the girl and you won't kick the fat in the 
fire. But, remember that a law-suit may be started 
by losing one's temper. (7o Miss Warren) Show 
Mr. Yates in — (Fullerton looks concerned) have 
the girl wait outside. 

(Fullerton looks relieved.) 

Miss Warren. Very well, sir. (She exits, leav- 
ing the door left open, and a moment later there 
enters Yates. Attorney Yates is something of a 
contrast to his colleague Filson. He is crass and 
crafty and not zucll-dressed. He affects a slyness 
and an overdone sophistication. Before a jury he 
ivoiild denounce Filson as the kept-man of the 
vested interests, but nothing pleases Yates more 
than to be on excellent terms zvith a lawyer so sue- 
cessfnl professionally and socially. Filson is zvell 
azvare of this zueakness and makes the most of it. 
He knozvs that when Yates has brought enough 
successful damage suits against the corporations the 
same Yates may then be regularly retained by the 
interests he has assailed, and he is even now con- 
sidering negotiations to this end. Filson's manner 
is breezy; so is that of Yates, who steps in springily 
and holds out his hand) 

Yates. Ah, Judge — we clash again. 

Filson. (Rising and extending his hand across 
desk) Well, Brother Yates — I hope this may not 
be a clash exactly. This is Mr. Fullerton, Mr. 
Yates. (Yates extends his hand mecJianically, 
Fullerton, coolly, and zvhile the two approach each 
other, Yates opens his mouth in a puzzled look and 
drops his hand, surprised) Ah, you've seen Mr. 
Fullerton before? 

Yates. (Politely hesitant) No, and I expected 
to meet a — eer — younger man. 



50 COMMON CLAY 

FuLLERTON. Sir, Sir, I don't understand — {He 
realizes) Oh, — it isn't /. It's my son. 

Yates. Oh, I see — I took the father for the 
son — {He smiles and points his meaning) when in 
this case, its the son who is the father. 

(FiLSON laughs slyly.) 

FuLLERTON. Sir? 

FiLSON. We admit nothing. 

Yates. {Smiling knowingly) Of course you 
admit nothing, Judge, you're his lawyer 

FuLLERTON. {F timing) And / admitted nothing. 

Yates. Not intentionally, but didn't you say 
(He points each word by bringing his left index 
finger into the palm of his right hand) 'It isn't I 
— it's my son " — didn't you use those words — 
{Turns to Filson) You heard him say it. — 

FuLLERTON. Coufound you, sir, I didn't mean it, 

Yates. You mean you didn't mean to say it. 

FuLLERTON. {Enraged, rises) Damn it, sir — I 
didn't suppose that I'd have to deal with a black- 
leg 

(FiLSON rises and steps in between.) 

Filson. Come now, this is never going to get us 
anywhere. You'll throv/ the whole thing into court 
before you know it. {He quiets them down) Let 
two lawyers settle this matter. Dick, you go in 
there. {Indicates right. Fullerton nurses his 
rage and puts his hand on knob of door, right) 

Fullerton. I leave tlie amount of hush-money — 
{Glaring at Yates and repeating the zvord with 
greater emphasis for his benefit) hush-money — to 
your judgment. {He exits, rolling his eyes at 
Yates) 

Yates. He's a pleasant fellow. 



COMMON CLAY 51 

FiLSON. (Seating himself and motioning Yates 
to chair left, zvhere Yates sits) He's the best fel- 
low in the world — kind father, good husband — but 
the gentlest creature will fight when its young are 
threatened. 

Yates. Yes, that's just the case with my client. 
And we lawyers have got to make a living, eh? 

FiLSON. (Opening a box of cigars and holding 
them to Yates zvho takes one, smells of it, and 
pnis it in his vest pocket) Exactly, brother Yates, 
(Holds a light for Yates, zvho re-lights a half- 
smoked cigar zvhich he has been holding) Exactly, 
and here's a case where we ought to get together — 
(He lights his ozvn cigar and speaks softly and in- 
sinuatingly) and compromise. 

Yates. (Smiling slyly) Spoken like a lawyer, 
Judge — we ought to get together. 

FiLSON. Well, what does your client want ? 

Yates. (Slyly) She wanted to talk personally 
with young Fullerton; but I persuaded her to let 
me see you, first. 

FiLSON. Is the girl in love with young Fuller- 
ton? 

Yates. She didn't say so — but it's very evident. 
Believe me, I know zvomen. 

FiLSON. Then do you really believe that young 
Fullerton is the father of her child? 

Yates. Yes, and if you talked to her for ten 
minutes you'd believe it, too. He ought to marry 
her. 

FiLSON. (Co7icerned) Does she ask it? 

Yates. No. She seems to have a good bit of 
pride — and she doesn't want money — for herself — 
she wants it for the child. She says that her boy 
ought to have a chance in the world and that her 
own experience has taught her that without some 
money no one has a chance — and with it you can 
make anything right. 



52 COMMON CLAY 

FiLSON. A cynical philosophy. 

Yates. (Shrugging his shoulders) She learned 
it from life — she's wise beyond her years, Judge — 
she's had to be. She says the child's entitled to 
just as much as if he zvere the legal heir. 

FiLSON. Eh, what's that? Why, man, Hugh 
Fullerton's heir is to have the largest fortune in this 
State. 

Yates. {Calmly hlozving cigar smoke upwards) 
That's what Fm after — and Miss Neal has the 
whole thing planned out. She's going to have the 
child adopted by good people. No one will ever 
know anything about who its mother is — or its 
father. AH the money's to be put into a trust fund 
for the child. She wants money only for her child — 
Fll take my part of it for myself. 

FiLSON. Oh, we are willing to give what's right. 
Fullerton doesn't know that Hugh is responsible for 
this condition but he realizes that there's a chance 
of it and he doesn't want to find out the truth of 
the matter — naturally. So we're willing to settle, 
but we don't propose to be held up for any ridiculous 
amount and if you push things too far you'll force 
us into court, that's all. 

Yates. Her terms are not ridiculous — they are 
based on a high sense of justice. It is not the 
child's fault that he is not the legal heir, and he is 
entitled in justice to as much as if he were the legal 
heir. 

FiLSON. That's a rather original way of looking 
at it. 

Yates. As far as the kid's concerned it's a just 
way. Those are our terms — in court or out, zve stick 
to them. 

FiLSON. {After a pause) Do you know your 
client ? 

Yates. Only as a client. 

FiLSON. Then you'd better not take her to court. 



COMMON CLAY 53 

for there I can prove that before she met young 
FuUerton she was just a zvoman of the tozvn. 

Yates. {Smiling incredulously) Naturally, 
that's what you'd trv to prove. 

FiLSON. And I'll prove it, too. (Filson goes to 
door R., opens it and looks through door, calling 
off-stage) Will you step in here, Mr. Coakley? 
(CoAKLEY enters, Filson indicating him addresses 
Yates combatively) Here's a man who'll testify 
in court if necessary, that your client has a past— 
in which he is personally concerned. Am I right, 
Mr. Coakley? 

Coakley. Yes— eer— it's true. (Yates gives 
Coakley a defiant appraising look) But I trust I 
won't have to testify — can't you lawyers keep this 
thing out of court? Fve caused trouble and shame 
enough to my family already — {Under Yate's ag- 
gressive gaze Coakley groivs uneasy) but, of 
course, if Fm called Fll have to tell what I know — 
She knew me before she knew Hugh. I found her 
at Bender's dance hall and I persuaded her to go 
with me to 916 Maple Street. 

(Yates gives Coakley a quick glance and Filson 
attempts to check Coakley's confession in the 
presence of Yates.) 

Yates. There's always a fellow like you hang- 
ing around — ready to help — in a frame-up. 

Filson. Now see here, Yates, I don't manu- 
facture evidence — this is no frame-up 

Yates. Well, Fll see quick enough. {He goes 
to door L. and turns tozvard them with his hand 
on the knob) Fll bet she won't know you. 

Coakley. {Holding out his hand in protest) 
Oh, wait 



54 COMMON CLAY 

(Yates gives a quick sly grin, feeling that he has 
exposed Coakley's play.) 

Yates. (Laughing) Oh, you want to wait, do 
you? (Quickly opens door) Miss Neal, will you 
step in here. 

(All three expectantly await the entrance of Ellen, 
who comes in with her eyes downcast, pale and 
embarrassed in appearance. She happens to 
look up and seeing Coakley she starts, gasps 
and almost szvoons. Yates is completely fiah- 
hergasted at the recognition.) 

Yates. Do you know that man? 

Ellen. Yes. 

FiLSON. (Triumphantly) Yes, she knows him, 
and there goes your case — (Snapping his fingers) 
up in smoke. 

Ellen. (To Coakley, tears of anger coming 
into her eyes. She controls herself and faces him 
as she speaks, tho' she is visibly embarrassed) I 
suppose you've come to tell on me. 

Coakley. Well — eer — yes, Ellen. That is, you 
see, it can't be helped — unless you'll be reasonable — 
(Her manner becomes more and more defiant and 
contemptuous as his becomes more propitiating and 
embarrassed) Now why don't you look at it 
reasonably and help us all out — for after all, Ellen, 
Hugh Fullerton was not the only man in your life — • 
and you can't deny that to me. 

(She glares at him, tears of anger come into her 
eyes, and she wipes them with her Jiandker- 
chief, gulps dozvn her rage and shame and pulls 
herself together.) 

Ellen. I'm not the kind of a woman that men 
like to hear crying. 



COMMON CLAY 55 

CoAKLEY. (Brightening) That's right, don't cry, 
Ellen — think of how hard you are making it for all 
of us — and be assured of this, that I'll not lie about 
you — even if you force me into the witness stand 
—I'll only tell the truth. 

Ellen. (Calmly tense) The truth — I'm the 
kind of woman that men tell the truth about — I'm 
not important enough for them to lie for — or to 
fight for — {IVifh energy while Coakley starts) 
£o I guess I'll have to fight for myself — it's the only 
way to get any respect — to strike back — (Ttirning 
to Yates, zvho has sunk into a chair and has not 
recovered from the recognition) You're my lawyer 
— don't sit there and look down and out. Tell me 
something to do — if a woman hasn't a husband or 
somebody else to strike back for her when she's 
hounded by a dog like this — (Indicating Coakley) 
doesn't the lazu do anything for her? 

(At this Yates, who has been feebly gesticulating 
his helplessness, appears to get an inspiration.) 

Yates. (Rises) Wait a minute! Maybe the 
law will help you. (Considering) This man has 
just admitted that he persuaded you to go with him 
to 916 Maple Street. (Coakley sees a trap and 
winces, and Yates turns to Ellen) How long 
ago was that? 

Ellen. Two years — I'll not forget it 

Yates. How old were you then ? 

Ellen. Eighteen ! 

Yates. (To Ellen) We've got 'em! (To 
Coakley) There's a statute in this state which 
provides that a man who entices a girl under twenty- 
one to such a house is guilty of a felony. (Turns 
quickly to Filson, shaking finger at him) And 
there goes yottr cr^se — up in smoke. (Filson starts, 
Coakley sits dozen zvith his head in his hands, 



56 COMMON CLAY 

Yates stands and lifts his voice) That fellow has 
just confessed to a crime. 

FiLSON. Come, come, Yates. 

Yates. (Loudly) I'm coming and coming 
strong. If this fellow tells what he knows in court 
he'll tell it as the defendant in his own trial and 
not as a witness against this girl — and what he tells 
will send him to the penitentiary. All we have to 
do is to swear out a warrant. 

CoAKLEY. (In great excitement) A warrant! 
You're not going to let him get a warrant, Judge. 

Yates. What the Hell has he got to do with 
that. He ain't the only lawyer in town. You'd 
better make up your mind not to tell any tales, young 
fellow. 

CoAKLEY. (Terrified) I'm out of it all. I 
won't testify to anything, anyzvhere. (Starts to go, 
hut Ellen confronts him angrily in front of door, 
left) 

Ellen. Oh, yes you will — You've told on me 
twice. And you'll tell again — in court. (To Yates) 
Let's go get that warrant. (Yates turns aside and 
motions to Filson. They talk together a moment 
earnestly, but no one hears zvhat is- said, Ellen 
speak angrily to Yates when she observes this 
parley) If you're my lawyer, you've got to show 
some fight or I'll get another. (She exits, slamming 
door, left) 

Yates. Well, I gotta go along with her, Judge. 
(Grabs hat from table) I'll call you up. (Rushes 
to door, left, turns on Coakley) As for you, I'll 
see you to-morrow morning in the court-room. 
(Exits hastily, left) 

Coakley. (Turning on Filson) This is the 
Hell of a way to keep a man out of court. 

(FuLLERTON pokcs kis head in through door right, 
then enters, looking about inquiringly.) 



COMMON CLAY 57 



FuLLERTON. What's happened now? 
FiLSON. They've gone for a warrant. 
FuLLERTON. {Excited) A warrant — for whom? 

(FiLSON indicates Coakley and Fullerton looks 
relieved, Coakley glares at him.) 

Coakley. You got me into this. 

Fullerton. No, Artie. But I was afraid you'd 
talk too much. {To Filson) But what's to be 
done about Hugh ? 

FiLSON. We've got one chance — her lawyer. 

Fullerton. That shyster — I wouldn't trust him. 
He's in this for the money he can get out of it. 

FiLSON. Exactly — that's the one chance I spoke 
of. 

Fullerton. Ah, yes, I see — well Sam, anything 
to save the honor of the Fullertons. 

Coakley. (Rises) What about the honor of the 
Coakleysf They're quite a important as the Full- 
ertons. 

FiLSON. Now, listen — ^both of you. Yates is 
coming back here after the warrant's out — as soon 
as he can get away from that mad girl. He's not 
going to let this settlement fall through — he wants 
his part of the money — and the girl has to have the 
money or her child will starve — so there we are. 
(Pauses) This girl is only a human being with a 
child — both are up against the need of money and 
we have it. We are bound to win. 

Coakley. But what will become of me? Why 
don't you stop that warrant ? 

FiLSON. I can't — I would gladly do so if I could 
— but that woman's in earnest. 

Coakley. Then Vll be thrown to the zvolves. 

FiLSON. No, we're going to stand by you. FU 
appear in court to-morrow and defend you. 



58 COMMON CLAY 

CoAKLEY. Ill court — Oh, my God — everybody in 
town will know all about it. If I get into court 
{Shaking finger at Fullerton) you'll have to come 
— as a witness. 

(Fullerton leaps in fright as if he had sat on a 
pin, drawing a quick breath of abject terror.) 

FiLSON. (Ironically) Yes, that's wise. Full- 
erton can only be a witness against you. He heard 
your confession. His testimony v/ould send you to 
the Penitentiary. 

CoAKLEY. (Non-plussed) I'm the goat — I'm 
always the goat — I was born to be a goat. (He 
zualks up and dozen wringing his hands, then steps 
in front of Fullerton as zvith an inspiration) If I 
get into court, you'll get into the papers. 

Fullerton. But my dear fellow, you surely — 

FiLSON. Here, listen to me. Dick, you know 
every newspaper owner in town. 

Fullerton. There won't be a zuord published — 
(To Coakley) about your arrest or your trial. 

CoAKLEY. That will help some. And if you can 
see Yates and talk it over, and get him to persuade 
the girl 

FiLSON. I'm going to have a conference with 
Yates this afternoon. But there's no way of pre- 
venting that girl from having a day in court with 
you — you'll go through the examining trial in the 
Police Court 

Coakley. The Police Court — (He groans) 

FiLSON. I'll probably not put you on the stand at 
all — the accused does not have to testify if he thinks 
best, and v/e'll have the girl down under oath as to 
her doings when she testifies against you. That 
will weaken her case against the Fullertons 

Fullerton. (Brightening) So it will — so it 
will. Sam, you've a very quick mind. 



COMMON CLAY 59 

FiLSON. And she'll be willing to settle her claim 
for less money. 

FuLLERTON. Give her v/hat's right, Sam, but see 
that she and Yates agree that Hugh's part in her 
history does not come up in court. 

FiLSON. Certainly — that has nothing to do with 
the case against Coakley — and Yates himself will 
take the Prosecuting Attorney's place in the morn- 
ing — there will be no chance of a leak then, and it's 
easier too because I don't believe that girl wants 
Hugh to be involved — Yates thinks she's in love 
with Hugh. 

FuLLERTON. Oh, the idea of it. But Fll go at 
once to the papers and stop any publication. {He 
takes his hat and starts tozvard door left) Fll cer- 
tainly keep it bottled up. Depend on that. (IVith 
a sudden inspiration) I can ask the newspapers to 
stop it on Artie's account — that will divert any 
suspicion from me — and when you're arrested, my 
boy, /'// go on your bond. (Patting his shoulder) 

Coakley. But I don't want to be arrested. 

(The 'phone rings. Filson takes dozvn receiver. 
FuLLERTOx pauses zvith his hand on the door- 
knob. Coakley awaits anxiously.) 

Filson. {In 'phone) Hello — Yes, that you 
Yates? Well, it can't be helped — and Yates, don't 
forget to meet me at four this afternoon — and mean- 
time get your client to agree to reasonable terms 
from Fullerton. All right — see you later. {He puts 
up receiver) Well the warrant's out. 

Coakley. {In terror) Judge, for God's sake 
keep me out of that trial. - Isn't there something you 
can do? 

(FiLSON glances with compassion at the boy, then 
takes up a copy of the statutes from desk and 



6o COMMON CLAY 

as he hastily runs his finger through the index' 
he talks to Coakley while Fullerton lingers 
at the door.) 

FiLSON. There's one alternative, perhaps 

Coakley. (Eagerly) What is it? 

FiLSON. Wait a minute. Ah, yes, here it is. 
Section io8 B. {He reads intently to himself) Yes, 
I was right — (Looks up from book, then rises) The 
legislature in its wisdom has seen fit to ordain that 
a man may make a bad woman good by marrying 
her and thereby investing her with his own good- 
ness. In other words, the statute provides that a 
man accused as you are may escape trial and penalty 
by marrying or offering to marry the woman. 

Fullerton. Splendid, splendid — that solves the 
whole problem. (To Coakley, who is dazed) 
You can marry the girl. You owe it to her, anyhow 
— by your own confession. And then, too, Fve 
known of cases like that where women have braced 
up and made excellent wives — often all that they 
need is a chance, you know 

Coakley. But you wouldn't let Hugh marry her. 

Fullerton. For heaven's sake, man, don't 
quibble. This is a time for action. 

Coakley. Well, FU be damned. Do you think 
I could introduce a woman like that to my mother. 
No. (He drazvs himself up resolutely) I know 
that I've been a debauchee and a drunkard but I've 
always remembered that I was born a gentleman — 
just as much of a gentleman as you are, Mr. Full- 
erton. If I've associated with people not of my 
class I've never recognized their social equality — 
the instinct of a gentleman is too deep within me — 
and I won't — I can't — marry a girl like that, no 
matter what I owe her or how much I am to blame. 
(Coakley takes hat and cane) A gentleman I was 



COMMON CLAY 6i 

born and a gentleman I'll remain — if I have to go to 
the penitentiary to do so. {He exits left) 

FuLLERTON. {Puzzled) Going to the penitentiary 
to be a gentleman. Sam, he doesn't know what a 
gentleman is. 

FiLSON. Neither do I, Dick. (Thoughtfully) 
Sometimes I think there is no such animal. 

Quick curtain 



ACT III 



Scene : The foUozving morning in the City Court- 
room. Court in session. Judge and officials 
in their places. 

Across the dozvn-stage's full length runs a 
wooden railing with a closed gate in center. 
The action takes place behind this railing, 
which gives an effect as if those seated in the 
orchestra of the theatre constitute the spectators 
at the trial. 

The court-room is a typical one for an ex^ 
amining tribunal where no jury trial is held. 
The tall narrow windozvs, all in rear, are 
heavily barred, and through them can be seen 
the white zvalls of a jail zvith its small narrow 
barred zvindows. Somewhere on rear wall 
hangs a large clock ticking, with the time set 
at II : 40, and a large calendar from zvhich a 
leaf is torn daily, revealing the date, October 
10, 1905. There are entrances right and left 
dozvn-stage inside railing — large, high, thick 
doors exactly opposite each other. Also another 
entrance up, right — a smaller door to the private 
offices of the court officials. The judge's tall 
bench is exactly in center. At its left is the 



62 COMMON CLAY 

zvitness stand, so arranged that the head of the 
zvitncss comes a little higher than the level of 
the judge's bench. In the witness-stand is a 
revolving chair. At left of witness stands 
Bailiff, back. Policemen guard each door. 
On right of judge is seated at a lozv table the 
clerk, busily engaged zvith a confusion of papers 
and a very large docket. A duplicate docket is 
spread before the judge. Also on his bench are 
ink and pen, pitcher and glass, and at each side 
on top an electric lamp. The furniture is heavy 
and solid. 

The lazvyers sit at a long narrow heavy table, 
right, running upstage and dozun. Coakley 
sits up next Filson, zvith whom he is zvhisper- 
ing earnestly nozv and then. On the dozvn side 
of Filson sits Yates, and dozvn side of Yates 
is vacant chair. 

Before the rise of the curtain the voice of 
Yates is heard saying — '' That's all I zvant to 
ask you, Miss Neal." 

As the curtain rises, Ellen Neal is on the 
zvitness stand. Her manner is a bit strained 
and she nervously fingers a pair of worn gloves 
in her lap, but there is a certain look of de- 
fiance beneath her discomfort. The prosecut- 
ing attorney for this case, Yates, is just lean- 
ing back in his chair.) 

Yates. Fm done with the witness, your Honor. 

Judge. {To Filson) Does the defense desire 
to cross-examine this witness? 

Filson. (Rising) Most assuredly, your Honor. 
Just sit where you are, Miss Neal. We're not done 
yet — there's more of this story to tell. (Ellen, 
who has started to leave the chair, settles back in 
disappointment, while Filson addresses the Judge) 
We are willing to admit the girl's story, your 



COMMON CLAY 63 

Honor, as far as it went. It is true as she says, 
that the accused took this girl in a cab to the house 
on Maple Street, after he had met her and had 
several drinks with her at Bender's Dance Hall. 
But I want to ask her a question in extenuation of 
my client. (Sits) Miss Neal, you admitted that 
you had frequently been in this place of Bender's? 

Ellen. Yes, sir, I went there for a while. 

FiLSON. You knew that it was not a proper 
place, didn't you? 

Ellen. Well, yes, I did. 

FiLSON. Then why did you go to this dance-hall? 

Ellen. (Simply) I wanted to see people and 
have a good time — I love to have a good time, and 
hear music and singing and to dance. I can't help 
it — it's in me. 

FiLSON. {Unwittingly sympathetic) But why 
didn't you have your good time and your dancing 
at a proper place ? 

Ellen. I don't know, sir — it must have been be- 
cause nobody ever seemed to want me at a proper 
place. 

FiLSON. Oh, they didn't seem to want you? 

Ellen. No, sir, I didn't get invited to proper 
places. People like you don't invite poor folks to 
come and dance with 'em. They make us wait on 
'em and work for 'em. I thought of making my 
debut with the good people that season but v/as 
afraid they wouldn't come to my party. So I made 
it at Bender's — met some nice young fellows there 
too — the best in town. 

FiLSON. (Nettled) And while you v/ere at 
Bender's enjoying yourself, did you ever drink with 
the nice young men? 

Ellen. Yes, when I had to — I didn't like to — 
very few of us do 

Filson. Why did you do it then? 

Ellen. I declined the first few times they asked 



64 COMMON CLAY 

me to drink, and Bender came over to see me. He 
said " I ain't runnin' this place in conjunction with 
the Women's Christian Temperance Union, You 
have to hustle booze or beat it." 

FiLSON. Will you tell the Court and myself the 
meaning of this slang you use? 

Ellen. I was telling you his own words — I don't 
like slang myself — but I've got to listen to a lot of 
it. " Hustling booze " means to keep the men buy- 
ing drinks and that's what I had to do — if I wanted 
to dance and hear the music, and meet good-looking 
chaps who'd take me to ride in automobiles. 

FiLSON. You could have stayed at home, couldn't 
you? 

Ellen. Yes, sir, I suppose so. 

FiLSON. Why didn't you? 

Ellen. (Thoughtfully) I don't know — it seems 
I ought to have, and yet I just couldn't. There are 
some homes that are easier to stick around than 
others — I worked in one like that once — it was a 
pretty place with pictures to look at, and books to 
read, and a room for music, and awfully good, 
clean things to eat, and white bath tubs — but even 
there the young ones didn't want to stay at home, 
except when they were tired or hungry. It seem's 
to me that when you're young and full of life you 
just naturally don't zvant to stay at home, and 
you're in a bad fix if you haven't any other place to 
go — what you called a proper place 

FiLSON. That's very interesting, but you must be 
more concise in your answers. 

Ellen. You asked me why I didn't stay at home 
— I'm trying to tell you — I can't just say " Because." 
And I'm trying to give you a sensible answer. Did 
you ever ride in your automobile through the worst 
parts of town — what people like you call the worst 
parts of town — where there's smoke and soot and 
railway tracks and noise and dirt and saloons and 



COMMON CLAY 65 

factories and cattle yards — you've been through 
there — went in a hurry, too, I expect — but did you 
ever notice the long rows of little frame houses just 
exactly alike — and did you ever see the tired, worn 
women hanging over the gates before sundown? 
They are the ones that stay at home — They stay 
there because they're usd to it — that's wdiat people 
like you say about 'em. " Oh, they don't mind, 
they're used to it." But they're a lot older than I 
am before they're used to it — and they're so tired 
and worn out by that time that they Avouldn't go 
around the corner to see a fight. But their kids 
will — they've life in 'em and they run and play in 
the streets when they're young — it's a dangerous 
place to play, but it's the only place they have — and 
when they get a little older they've still got life in 
'em, and they v/ant to amuse themselves, and it's 
still a dangerous place that they have to go to — but 
they go — it seems as if they just can't help it. 
That's why I went. 

Judge. {Leaning over the bench zvlth interest) 
What were the circumstances of your first visit to 
Bender's? 

Ellen. You mean how did I come to go there? 
I kept getting hints and messages — it got up my 
curiosity. There was a girl who lived next door 
to us 

FiLSON. What was her name? 

Ellen. Guinevere Peters. 

FiLSON. W^hat sort was she? 

Ellen. She was v/ild, but friendly and full of 
fun. My mother told me not to have anything to 
do with her. 

Filson, But you did go with her against your 
mother's wishes? 

Ellen. {Nettled) Yes, I did— I just couldn't 
cut her dead when she lived right next door — I'm a 
human being. 



66 COMMON CLAY 

FiLSON. (Sarcastically) I begin to suspect as 
much. But tell us more of Guinevere. 

Ellen. One summer night I was standing at the 
front gate feeling blue and Guinevere came along 
and said to me : " You're stuck on yourself because 
you're straight — well, you needn't be. You think," 
she said, "that you'll come to good and I'll come 
to harm, but believe me, you're wrong." And then 
Guin pointed to the window in our house where my 
father and my mother were sitting by the coal oil 
lamp. " That's what you'll come to," she said, " if 
you keep straight and marry the kind of a boob 
that you'll draw." And I looked the way she 
pointed and there the old people sat. He was spell- 
ing over the newspaper and knitting his brows to 
get the meaning and smoking a stogie that you could 
smell to the street, and she was sitting there looking 
as if the Angel Gabriel couldn't blow his horn soon 
enough to suit her. " That's the reward of virtue 
for women like us," said Guin. " We can be the 
good, honest, hard-working wives of boneheaded 
men, and engage in the greatest of all indoor sports 
— dish wishin'. If you hke that sort of thing, go to 
it. But don't get it into your head that you'll be 
appreciated for making a drudge of yourself. Why, 
let me tell you something," she said, " I could go 
in there and take him away from her any time I 
got ready." And then Guin told me that the men 
around Bender's had been asking about me. " Swell 
boys come there in automobiles," she said, " they 
know how to spend their money and have a good 
time. They want to meet you." And she asked me 
to come down to Bender's with her, but I wouldn't 
go 

FiLSON. Oh, you zvouldn't go — then what has all 
this to do with my question? 

Ellen. Well, 3^ou see — I — er — went later. 

FiLSON. Oh, you went later — how much later? 



COMIvION CLAY 67 

Ellen. I went a few days later. I got to think- 
ing over what Guinevere said. It seemed to me there 
was something in it. 

FiLSON. It didn't take much to persuade you, 
then? 

Ellen. It didn't take much to let me see that no 
matter zvkat I did there v/asn't much in life for me. 
And then a few days later when I was sprinkling 
the street, along came a big auto full of clean- 
looking boys, and they waved their straw hats at me 
and smiled, and they looked so happy and cool and 
free, that it just made me laugh to think that some- 
body was having a good time anyhow. And then 
they turned the machine around and camx up to the 
curbing, and one of them jumped out. " Come along 
Irene and take a ride." " You're pretty fresh," I 
said, " and my name's not Irene." And he said, 
" Well, v/hatever your name is, we'll scout around 
and see if there's any joy left in the world." And 
there the big car was chugging away right in front 
of me, and all those happy good-natured boys ask- 
ing me to come along to the woods and the fields and 
out of that dust and smoke. I turned 'em down 
cold, tho', and before they went away they said 
they'd be in at Bender's after dark if I wanted to 
change my mind. 

FiLSON. {Sarcastically) And you changed your 
mind — at dark. 

Ellen. I went in to supper and I never saw 
that stuffy, little house look so dingy or feel so hot, 
and the supper never was so greasy, and the oil- 
cloth on the table never was so dirty. Then while I 
was washing the dishes at the kitchen sink, up came 
the moon, big and red through the smoke, and I 
thought of how it would look out on the cool, 
country roads in a little while, shining like silver. 
I just couldn't stand it another minute, I walked 



6S, COMMON CLAY 

out of that kitchen, put on my best things, and 
went. 

FiLSON. {Smiling, insinuatingly) Oh, you went, 
eh? 

Ellen. {With defiance at Filson) Yes, we've 
got a right to more than living — we've got a right 
to have a good time in this world. 

Filson. And you found your idea of a good 
time when you met the boys at Bender's ? 

Ellen. Well, it wasn't vrhat I would have picked^ 
but it was the best time I could get — and I believe 
with all the mess it's made for me it's no worse now 
than standing at that kitchen sink every night would 
have been. It was som.ething like living, running 
with those boys. They knew how to enjoy things. 
Guinevere Peters let the boys get fresh with her, 
but I didn't at first. And Guinevere said to me, 
" See here, Priscilla, this is no place for a Puritan 
maid, and these are regular fellers — and they've got 
the kale and-are willing to part with it, but they don't 
take us girls joy-riding just because they think we 
need the fresh air." And they all laughed and said 
that Guin was a peach and had the right idea. They 
got to drinking more and more and I took a little 
now and then to be a good fellow. We wound up 
at Bender's again and I was feeling gay and sang 
a few songs and after we'd danced awhile, Guin 
went off with one of the boys and I slipped away 
from the crowd and got home. 

Filson. But you went back again? 
Ellen. Yes, sir. I kept going back — you see. 
Bender liked the way I sang and he gave me em- 
ployment to sing. Coakley was always hanging 
around there, and he kept after me, and it hap- 
pened — as I told before. 

Filson. I'm done with this witness. You may 
stand down. 



COMMON CLAY 69 



(Ellen, relieved, steps down from the witness chair 
and takes her seat on down side of Yates.) 

Yates. (Rising) May it please your Honor, I 
want to put Mrs. Neal on the stand to testify as to 
the girl's age at the time of the commission of the 
offence. We will prove by this witness that her 
daughter was then and is still under the age men- 
tioned in the statute. Incidentally we will, by this 
witness, refute some of the insinuations of improper 
bringing up which the defense has attempted to cast 
upon the complainant. Call Mr.s Neal 

(The Bailiff zvalks out, calling '' Mrs. Neal! Mrs. 
Neal! Mrs. Neal!" Mrs. Neal enters, as- 
sisted by the Bailiff. She is a little, frail 
zvoman, timid and frightened and speaks in a 
low tremulous voice. She zvears a very small 
bonnet, sitting high on her head, with strings 
from it tied under her chin, and a shazvl of 
Persian design, rather tattered. She carries a 
round, black fan, zvhich folds into a stick, and 
iJiis she folds and unfolds nervously, nozv and 
then fanning herself. She zvears gloves which 
cover only her hands, and her arms are bare 
from the elbozv. Her whole appearance sug- 
gests respectable poverty, and she seems to 
have put on everything she had in zvhich to 
come to Court. As she seats herself the 
Bailiff speaks to her.) 

Bailiff. Hold up your right hand. (She holds 
up the left hand and it is seen to tremble) Your 
right hand — that's your left one. 



70 COMMON CLAY 

(Transferring her fan to her left hand, she holds up 
her right. The clerk holds a Bible upon which 
she places her left hand.) 

Clerk. (In sing-song tone, holding up his right 
hand) Do you solemnly swear that the evidence 
you are now about to give shall be the truth, the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth — so help 
you God? 

(In a dazed zvay, the little woman nods assent.) 

Bailiff. Answer " I do ". 

Mrs. Neal. I do. (Whereat she trembles with 
responsibility) 

Yates. (Reassuringly) Now, Mrs. Neal, Vm 
going to ask 3^ou a few questions. Be good enough 
to speak clearly. 

Mrs. Neal. Yes, sir, I want to do right, sir. 

Yates. Mrs. Neal, how old was Ellen Neal at 
the time of the commission of this offense by this 
defendant? 

Mrs. Neal. (Hopelessly confused) I don't 
know what you mean, sir. 

Yates. Ah, yes — I see — well, Mrs. Neal, how 
old is Ellen now? 

Mrs. Neal. She's twenty years old. 

Yates. That made her eighteen years old at the 
time of which we were speaking — two years ago. 

Mrs. Neal. (Counting her fingers, doubtfully 
perplexed) Yes, sir. (Then realizing — spontan- 
eously childlike) Oh, yes, sir — that's it, sir — right 
you are — two from twenty is eighteen. 

Yates. And now, Mrs. Neal, will you tell the 
court what you know about Ellen's character? 

FiLSON. (Rising) I object, your Honor. Char- 
acter evidence is not admissible. 

Judge. But this is only an examining trial. 



COMMON CLAY 71 

Tud^e Filson. I'll allow as much latitude as neces- 
sarv"^ Our rules of evidence are not so narrow as 
those of the higher court, which may make final 
disposition. Before I hold, or decline to hold, this 
defendant to the Grand Jury, I want to know the 
matter from all its angles. I overrule the objection. 
(Directly to Mrs. Neal, in a kindly tone. Filson 
sits) That means that you must tell me all you 
know about the girl's behavior. 

I\Irs. Neal. Well, sir, I don't know as I can say 
anything against her up to the time she got to run- 
ning to that dance-hall. I raised her straight up 
from a baby in the word of God— we were church- 
goin' people, your Honor, both Neal and me. The 
girl was a good child, but terrible full of fun— and 
she could sing somethin' wonderful. She was awful 
smart in school and you could hardly get her to 

stop 

Yates. Did you want her to stop school — and 
she wouldn't? 

Mrs. Neal. Yes, sir, she wasn't like other 
children that way. She wanted to go and she spoke 
the English language like you read it in a book — 
she got more education than she could stand. And 
Neal he savs to me "That child's gittin' to know- 
too much."' You see, your Honor, she was gittin' 
so that people like she was thrown with didn't in- 
terest her— she knew more than they did, and she 
got to talkin* about risin' up to higher things. We 
tried to get her interested in a young feller who was 
a brakeman on the rai/road— a steady, good boy 
who never touched a drop of drink, but she wanted 
to go with educated fellers— and that's where she 
went wrong, your Honor. It's put me down on 
education— except for rich people. It only makes 
the poor dissatisfied with the place that the 
Almighty put 'em in. She was as good a girl as I 
know— until we educated her. 



^2 COMMON CLAY 

Yates. That's all for the prosecution. Do yon 
wish to take the witness, Judge Filson? 

FiLSON. I do, indeed. Mrs. Neal, you have 
been ingeniously ingenuous, haven't you. 

Mrs. Neal. I hope so, sir — I always try to be. 

{The Judge and Yates look at Filson and laugh.) 

Yates. (Rising) Your Honor, I was about to 
object to Judge Fil son's insinuating attempt to dis- 
credit the witness had not her own answer been 
so completely convincing of her honesty. 

FiLSON. (Flaring up) I can cross-examine with- 
out your assistance, sir. Mrs. Neal, don't you think 
that any other mother would say as much as she 
could on the witness stand — for her daughter? 

Mrs. Neal. I guess so, sir. 

FiLSON. Then as Ellen's mother, you'll naturally 
speak in her favor here, won't you? (Mrs. Neal 
shozvs agitation) Now I'm not meaning to harass 
you, madam — Fm simply trying to show that what 
you say may be perfectly naturally in favor of 
your own daughter. 

Mrs. Neal. But sir — (She hesitates) Oh, I 
want to speak the truth, sir, as a Christian woman 
— I do, sir 

FiLSON. I'm not impeaching your veracity 

Mrs. Neal. What's that, sir? 

FiLSON. I'm not doubting your truthfulness, 
Mrs. Neal — I am only asking you to admit that, 
being Ellen Neal' s mother, you're not so likely to go 
out of your way to say anything against your own 
child. 

Mrs. Neal. But you don't understand, sir. 

FiLSON. (Puzzled) What's that — don't under- 
stand what? (Pauses as if he may have made 
a mistake) I understand that you are this girl's 
mother — aren't you? 



COMMON CLAY 73 

Mrs. Neal. (Agitated) Well— eer— I never 
said here that I was her mother, sir. 

(Ellen starts a little, and looks pusded at Mrs. 
Neal.) 

FiLSON. Eh, how's that? (Pauses) Well, are 
you or not the mother of Ellen Neal? 
Mrs. Neal. I am, sir — in a way, sir. 

(Ellen is dum founded; everyone seems puzzled, 
and FiLSON evinces the manner of one who 
has stumbled on an unexpected treasure.) 

FiLSON. In a way — you're her mother — what 
do you mean by that? 

IVIrs. Neal. I miean that I'm the same as a 
mother to her. 

FiLSON. But she isn't really your daughter? 

(Ellen leans forward hanging on the^ woman's 
words. Their eyes meet and the witness is in 
greater agitation.) 

Mrs. Neal. You mustn't ask me that, lawyer. 

Yates. (Rising) I object, your Flonor 

Judge. The defense has a right to show the 
relationship between the prosecuting witness and 
her character witness. Objection overruled! 

FiLSON. That means. Madam, that you must 
answer my question. 

Mrs. Neal. But I don't feel like I ought to, 
sir — honest I don't ■■ 

FiLSON. But you are not the judge of what you 
ought to do here 

Mrs. Neal. (Picking up spirit) I am that, 
lawyer — as I'm a Christian woman. 

FiLSON. (Catching an inspiration — craftily)] 



74 COMMON CLAY 

But didn't you just now hold up your right hand — - 
with your other hand on the Bible — as a Christian 
woman — (FilsOn is holding up his right hand and 
working his voice up to an ifupressive climax) and 
swear that you were going' to tell the truth — the 
whole truth — and nothing but the truth — so help you 
Godf 

Mrs. Neal. {Tremendously moved and im- 
pressed by the lazvyer's manner and zvords) Yes, 
sir, yes, sir. I know I did, sir — I didn't think about 
it in that way — not in that way, sir. But you're 
right, lawyer — oh, you're a sharp one, lawyer — I've 
got to say 3^ou're right — well then, I'll answer the 
question and God can decide whether I'm right or 
wrong — {She braces herself and she and Ellen 
look at each other, Ellen half rising from her seat 
and leaning tozvard the witness) I ain't the real 
mother of that grl. 

Ellen. {Springing up) She is, too — she is, I tell 
you — she's the first face I remember — (Bailiff 
tries to quiet Ellen, but slie breaks azuay from 
him) Now she's going back on me because I'm in 
bad. 

{The Bailiff gets Ellen back to her seat zuhere 
she sits, her face hid in her handkerchief, mak- 
ing no sound, but her body shaking with her 
efforts to stifle her feelings. Mrs. Neal is 
agitated and distressed. Filson questions her 
in a very sympathetic tone.) 

Filson. Mrs. Neal, since you say you are not 
the mother of the girl who bears your name, will 
you tell us how you came to rear her — and whose 
daughter she is? 

Mrs. Neal. {Is again visibly perturbed) I 
can't tell you ! 

Filson. Do you mean that you don't know? 



COMMON CLAY 75 

Mrs. Neal. Not that— not exactly that, sir? 

FiLSON. Is she your husband's daughter?^ 

Mrs. Neal. Oh, no, sir— how can you asK that, 
sir^ My husband was ahvays a true man. 

Yates. (Rising) May it please the court, i 
object to this line of examination. The statute de- 
fines the crime— if this man induced a girl under 
twenty-one to enter such a house as the one m ques- 
tion, he should be held to the Grand Jury for its 
action— no matter whose daughter she was. Ihat 
has no bearing on the case. 

FiLSON. (Rising) I beg to differ with you, sir. 
(To the court, standing) Your Honor has just 
said that you want the greatest latitude m the evi- 
dence—as is always the case in examining trials. 
A.nd I say that it docs m.atter whose daughter this 
girl was or is. It has a bearing on the case. Her 
very birth and parentage are shrouded in mystery— 
and can your Honor reasonably expect as much of 
bad stock as of good? (At this last line the woman 
shows agitation) And if the child does not bear 
the name of her father and an explanation of tnis 

is avoided, does it not cast suspicion 

Judge. (Yates and Filson sit) Let me ask 
the witness a question. (He leans toward the 
agitated zvitness and speaks in kindly tones) _ Mrs. 
Neal, have vou any good reason for declining to 
tell who this girl's father and mother were? 

Mrs. Neal. I don't know v/ho they were — that 

is 

Judge. Do you know who either of them was? 

Mrs. Neal. I knew her mother. 

Judge. And have a good reason for not telling 
who she was? 

Mrs. Neal. I promised not to — and I ve kept 
my vvord so far — that (Indicating Ellen) child 
he'^rself thousdit up until this time that I was her 
mother. (The tzvo zvomen look at each other and 



^6 COMMON CLAY 

hcth put their handkerchiefs to their eyes as realiza^ 
tion shows on Ellen's features) As I'm a Christ- 
ian I've tried to be a mother to her. (She breaks, 
but Ellen controls herself. The onlookers bend 
forzvard and there is a lull. Filson rises and 
speaks in gentle tones) 

Filson. ^lay it please the court, I will not press 
this good woman any further. In desiring to get 
at the whole truth I have been perhaps too vigorous 
in my examination. (To witness) I regret that 
you are not the mother of this girl — had you been, 
her career would have been different, I am sure. 
(To the court) But, your Honor, you can't expect 
much from those who come of a bad lot. 

(The witness, whose face has been buried in her 
handkerchief, starts up, and turns a fierce gaze 
to tJie lawyer, pointing Jicr fnger at him and 
dropping handkerchief in so doing.) 

Mrs. Neal. (Excitedly angry) She didn't 
come of no bad lot, she didn't. (Pause) Som.e 
might have called her mother a bad one, but her 
father v/as one of the biggest men in this town. 

Filson. Then he should be with her now — who 
was he? 

Mrs. Neal. (Pauses) Judge, your Honor, I 
don't know who he was — nobody knows — he don't 
even know himself. 

Filson. What ? 

Mrs. Neal. It v/as this v/ay — (Pauses thought- 
fuUv) I'm a-goin' to tell it all — I promised her I 
wouldn't tell, but I swore right here so help me 
God — (Holding up her hand) that I'd tell the whole 
truth, and I'm a Christian wom.an and I believe it's 
better to fear the v/rrdh of a living God than to 
keep your promise to a dead woman. It's this 
way, your Flonor. When that girl was born I was 



COMMON CLAY yj 

the only person with her mother. And the mother 
gave me all her money, about five hundred dollars, 
and ast me please for God's sake to adopt the baby 
and raise it so that nobody would ever know who 
its mother was. " I want that kid to have a chance," 
she says. And she told me that the father was a 
hig man, a smart man with a future, and that she 
loved him and didn't want anything to stand in his 
way. " If I tell him what's happened he'll want to 
marry me," she says, " to set it right, and that will 
be the ruin of him. Nothin' must stand in his way," 
she said, '' He mustn't even knozv that his child was 
ever horn." And she wouldn't tell me who he was, 
and I don't know to this day, but she said I had to 
help her to help him, and I took the baby and said 
" I'll help you, Dolly." {She pauses and Filson 
gives a slight start. She continues in a lozv tense 
voice) And a few days later they found her body 
floating in the river below the city. (Filson starts 
again and turns his head tozvard the audience t6 
avoid those in the court room. His eyes are pensive 
and filmy. All on the stage bend forzuard and hang 
on the woman's words, not noticing Filson. Mrs. 
Neal is affected by her own zvords and the recol- 
lections zvhich they bring to her, and she loses her- 
self in the drama zvhich has suddenly come into her 
zvork-a-day life. She makes a long pause, during 
zvhich her lips move but say nothing, then she speaks 
very slozvly and distinctly) She was a woman of 
the town and she didn't want to stand in that man's 
way, she didn't want him or the child to stand in 
each other's way. {Addressing herself to Filson, 
who docs not look at her) But you can't say, 
lawyer, that that child came of any bad lot — men 
like you might call her mother bad, but her father 
was one of the biggest men in this tozvn, {She 
pauses a moment) so Dolly said, and so I believe, 
but that ain't saying that he'll be any bigger or bet- 



78 COMMON CLAY 

ter than Dolly Montrose in the Kingdom Come, 
where the last shall be first and the first shall be 
last. 

(FiLSON stares dim-eyed and blankly in front of 
him, making no sound. He faces audience. 
Interest of those in stage centers on the zvit- 
ness and on Ellen.) 

Yates. (After a pause) If Judge Filson has 
no further questions for the witness, your Honor, 
the prosecution rests its case here. (Yates looks 
at Filson for an anszuer) 

(Filson's hands grip the arms of his chair, as he 
realizes that he must act, and he half rises 
as he speaks.) 

Filson. May it please the court — {He sinks hack 
in his chair quietly, and puts his hand to his head. 
The Bailiff pours a glass of zi'atcr and hastens to 
him. Filson drinks, and puts down the glass on 
table zvith trembling hands. Movement in crozjud) 
Ah, thank you. 

Judge. Are you ill, Judge Filson? 

Filson. I think Fm all right now, your honor, 
it was just — eer — just the bad air. {Fanning him- 
self zvith handkerchief) 

Yates. {Sarcastically) Judge Filson dwells on 
the heights — where the air is pure. 

Filson. {Smiling) It isn't that, your Honor, 
but I'd like a breathing spell — it may be that I won't 
put my client on the stand — perhaps we could 
adjourn until afternoon — I'd like time 

(Ellen, zvho has pulled herself together rises and 
checks Filson by holding up her hand. The 
Judge on the bench looks at her zjuith surprise 



COMMON CLAY 79 

and the eyes of the crowd are centered on her. 
She holds her position for a moment and speaks 
in calm voice.) 

Ellen. There's no use in taking any more time 
on this— I'm going to end it here and now. {Every- 
one is excitedly bending forzvard and the Bailiff 
starts tozvard Ellen, but the Judge motions htm 
back with a wave of his gavel. Ellen addresses 
the court directlv) Your Honor, I don't know 
much about the law, but I've learned enough about 
life in the last two minutes to stand up here and 
ask you to let that man — (Indicating Coakley) 
go free. (He rises) There's nothing in life for 
either of us as things are. We two are just a couple 
of strays — and we've been fighting each other when 
there's not even a bone to fight over. It's not going 
to make a better woman out of me to send him to 
jail, and it's not going to make a better man of 
him', and it's not going to keep anybody else from 
doing as we did. 

(Both FiLSON and Yates jump up and point their 
fingers at the Judge.) 

FiLSON. May it please the court 

Yates. Your Honor, I 

Judge. Pardon me, gentlemen, but I don't be- 
lieve we need the advice of lawyers any further in 
the case at bar. This girl has learned from her 
own life 

Ellen. May it please your Honor, I've learned 
from my m.other's life. When she went dozvn she 
didn't drag anybody down with her, and when the 
man that was my father went up, he didn't take 
anybody up with him. I want to be as she was, 
your Honor. (Her voice quavers just a little, but 
her delivery is not oratorical) She wasn't straight, 



8o COMMON CLAY 

but my, she was square. (She continues to stand 
and look out over the audience while a tear glistens 
in her eye. Filson hozvs his head. Coakley and 
Ellen put handkerchiefs to their eyes. The 
Judge writes on his docket, and as his pen scratches 
lie pronounces his judgment) 

Judge. Arthur Coakley — dismissed — on the 
motion of the prosecuting witness. {He blots the 
docket, Coakley rises and silently takes the girl's 
hand and presses it. Then he walks out and makes 
his exit at door l.) Mr. Clerk, call the next case. 

Clerk. This is the last case on to-day's docket, 
your Honor. 

Judge. {Suppressing his emotion) Uum — {He 
looks at his docket) Yes, so it is. {He raps with 
his gavel) Court is adjourned until to-morrow 
morning at nine o'clock. {The Judge closes his 
docket and rises. He and officials exit upper right, 
the Clerk carrying his docket with him. Yates 
starts iozvard Ellen to help her zvith her coat and 
FiLSON nervously calls him aside and in pantomime 
indicates that he is to leave Ellen and to escort 
Mrs. Neal away, which Yates does. Ellen and 
Mrs. Neal look at one another indecisively and 
then rush into one another's arms. Yates leads 
Mrs. Neal away and they exit left. Ellen stands 
left and looks through the windozv at the prison 
zvalls in rear. Filson watches Ellen anxiously 
zvaiting his chance to speak to her alone. When 
they are left alone he approaches her. She starts 
with surprise as he speaks) 

FiLSON. I want to talk with you — er — eer — 
Ellen. 

Ellen. Oh, I didn't know you were here — I — 
eer — was thinking of the prisoners behind those 
walls. {Indicating walls) 

FiLSON. Yes — eer — some persons lead very hard 
lives, Ellen. 



COMMON CLAY 8i 

Ellen. They had me in there once. {Laughs 
bitterly) It's a great experience for a girl— sort 
of finishing school. I guess it has finished me. 
FiLSON. Let us hope not. 

Ellen. Why are you so interested all at once? 
FiLSON. Some day you will know. 
Ellen. (Cyiiically) Maybe I do now. (In- 
simiating) That's the way they all talk. 

FiLSON. (Horrified) Child, have you no faith 
in human nature? (She smiles cynically again) 
You're hard and cynical. 

Ellen. It's what we're up against that makes 
us what we are. 

FiLSON. I know — I know — You have not had 
your chance— I want to help you to be another 
woman. (Ellen puts her hand on her hips and 
looks at him mockingly) Really I do. Listen to 
me, Ellen. Can you imagine yourself as another 
woman? You, and yet souieone else? (His voice 
is lozu and pleading. She softens a bit and looks 
absently off as she talks) 

Ellen. Yes, I have done that a thousand times- 
day-dreamed that I was another girl. Why, I've 
even given her another name — she's Eleanor Gail. 
The woman I would have been if I .could have 
made myself — if I could have liad the chance and 
the money that your kind of women have. That 

girl my other self — is loved and respected by men 

who make a plaything of Ellen Neal— and she is 
good, and she is wanted in places where Ellen can 
never enter — but she isn't ashamed of Ellen Neal— 
my other self, because, having been Ellen, she can 
remember — and understand. 

FiLSON. I want to make you into that other 
v/oman. (He pauses and catches her interest) You 
have the natural gifts and talents. I want to give 
vou the money and opportunity to develop them. 
Listen, I am going to see that Mr. Fullerton pro- 



82 COMMON CLAY 

vides for your child — and finds a good home — and 
I want you to go to New York. 

Ellen. To New York ! 

FiLSON. Yes, and when you get there you are to 
buy all the beautiful clothes that the other girl — 
your other self — will need — and I'll come a day or 
two later and join you — {She regards him quiz- 
zically) and we will plan your studies. 

Ellen. Plan my studies 1 Well, aren't you the 
slick old citizen. 

FiLSON. What! Why, child, you don't under- 
stand ! 

Ellen. Oh, yes I do. You think you'll date 
me up for a trip to New York. 

Filson. {Recoiling in Jiorror) No — no — no — • 
Listen to me. {Pauses) I must tell you something 
that I meant to tell you later. Ellen, I am your 
father. 

Ellen. {Looks at him in amazement, then 
bursts into ringing, mocking laugh) Well, that's 
the best one I CA^er heard. 

FiLSON. You don't believe me? 

Ellen. Oh, you ought not to try that on me. 
I've just been through with it. If you were my 
father you would be running away from me just as 
Hugh Fullerton ran from his child. You are tell- 
ing me that just to get me to meet you in New York, 

(FiLSON is dum founded, and then lie thinks of the 
note that Dolly Montrose wrote him. He 
clutches the outside of his coat to feel if his 
pocket-book is there, and quickly takes it out 
and unfolds the letter. Her interest is aroused 
by his poAitomime.) 

FiLSON. Here is a note that will prove it. {He 
hands her the note and she takes it curiously and 
reads aloud each word haltingly, her face betraying 



COMMON CLAY 83 

emotion and surprise as the truth is driven 
home) 

Ellen. (Reading aloud) "When you get this 
note, Sam, I'll be dead. I won't pull you down with 
me, and I hope you will take the chance I am giving 
you to go on up. Don't act like a fool and give the 
thing away, for it will be too late to do me any 
good. I want to repay you for wanting to be 
straight with me, and this is the best way I know 
how. Good-bye, Dolly Montrose. / zvant you to 
go to the top/' (Looking at Filson, both greatly 
moved) So, you are the man? 

Filson. Yes, Ellen, the man who helped to 
bring you into the world 

Ellen. And then proved in court that I came of 
a bad lot, 

Filson. We are all of the same common clay, 
(He advances tozvard her and holds her in his arms, 
reverently stroking her forehead) Oh, my dear, 
my dear. I shall help you and you shall help me. 
You shall have what other women have, you shall 
be as they are. 

Ellen. (Looking up, fervently) And will you 
be proud of me when I am no longer Ellen Neal — 
When I am Ellen Filson? 

Filson. (Proudly) I mean to make the whole 
country proud of you — (He drops his voice to a con- 
versational tone) but you mustn't take my name. 

Ellen. (Surprised, and drawing away from 
him) So you're ashamed of me, too — as you were 
of my mother. 

Filson. I asked your mother to marry me. She 
wouldn't do it. I was young then. But she knew 
the ways of the world and how useless it is to go 
against them. So do I now. (Pauses) I want to 
be of real help to you without being a hindrance at 
all. We must keep our secret — it's the only way. 

Ellen. If you want to do anything for me you 



84 COMMON CLAY 

can't go snooping around on the sly about it. 
{Passionately) I won't be shoved off into dark 
corners. I'm tired of having everybody ashamed 
of me when they are all doing as I've done. The 
big people are no better than the other ones — and 
I'm going back to the streets. {She starts tozvard the 
door hastily. As she opens it, Filson, his face 
writhing in pain, cries her name) 

FiLSON. Ellen! Ellen! {He szvays slightly and 
puts his hand on railing for support. He drops his 
head and his lips move zvithout speech. Ellen 
pauses and looks at him. Slozvly sJie closes the door 
and stands, hand on knob, thinking) 

Ellen. I — I can't leave you if it hurts you that 
much. {Pauses) I'll do as you say. {Pauses) 
Maybe you're right — {Pauses and takes hand off 
door-knob) But there's something bigger than right 
or wrong — {Starts tozvard him) it's helping one 
another. {She falls in his arms and clutches his 
shoulder. Pie looks upzvard, Jiis lips move, and he 
caresses her) 

Curtain 



ACT IV 

Scene : Th.e setting is the same as that for Act I — 
the time, a little more than ten years later than 
that of the first act. There are slight altera- 
tions in the furniture to indicate the changes of 
time. The Christmas holly and mistletoe used 
for decoration in Act I do not nozv appear. 

Before the rise of the curtain a modern piece 
of dance music is heard off-stage behiv.d cur- 
tain. Tlie mdisic continues and no one is on 
stage, but voices and laughter are novj and 



COMMON CLAY 85 

then heard from upstairs mingled zvith the 
Tnusic. The door-bell rings and a young man- 
servant (not Edwards of the first act) passes 
through hallway, going right to open the front 
door. The door is heard to open and Filson 
enters right followed by servant, who takes his 
hat and coat. Fullerton enters on sfairzuay 
and comes dozvnstairs. He is deeply concerned, 
looking about as if expecting someone, sees 
Filson and comes quickly tozvard him. Ser- 
vant exits left hallway, carrying Filson's hat 
and coat. 

Fullerton. Sam, Fve been waiting for you! 
What makes you so late? 

Filson. I v/ent to the Club after the Opera. 

Fullerton. {Anxiously, as he takes Filson's 
arm and guides him into library) I'm in trouble 
again ! It's my bo}^ ! 

Filson. He isn't mixed up with another woman, 
is he? 

Fullerton. It's the same womian. 

Filson. {Smiling, aside) After all these years. 
(Pause) Perhaps he's in love with her? (Looks 
at Fullerton to note effect of this speech) 

Music stops.) 

Fullerton, She is upstairs — nov/. 

Filson. (Slyly) What's she doing, serving the 
ices? 

Fullerton. (IVringing his hands) No, she's 
the guest of honor! We've invited everybody 
v/orth while to meet her 

Filson. Mrs. Fullerton is entertaining her house- 
maid. (Filson smiles, concealing smile from Full- 
erton and sitting right of table. Fullerton sits 
kft of table) 



86 COMMON CLAY 

FuLLERTON. No, no, she's in the opera now — a 
celebrity. Hugh had been talking of her and when 
her company came to town he said he would like 
for us to meet her. My wife, is devoted to the 
Opera, so we were glad to have her — she's quite 
well known. (Filson and Fullerton exchange 
nods) But she hadn't been here ten minutes before 
my wife identified her as that Neal woman. She 
has another name — nozv — Eleanor Gale — Lord 
knows what her name will be next. 

FiLSON. Perhaps Mrs. Hugh Fullerton. (He 
looks at Fullerton without smiling to note effect 
of this speech) 

Fullerton. Oh, Sam, why will you joke about 
everything ? 

FiLSON. Fm not joking — exactly — it's some- 
thing I suggested to you one day in my office. Re- 
member ? 

Fullerton. Perish the thought ! The boy is in 
her clutches — I want you to help me again. 

FiLSON. But Hugh is no longer a boy. He's a 
capable, successful man past thirty. He knows his 
own mind. 

Fullerton. No man knows his own mind when 
a woman takes it. (Pauses and grows explosive) 
She ought to be put out of this house. 

FiLSON. (Siniling) Well, you can hardly expect 
me to do that for you — Fm a lawyer, not a police- 
man. (Pauses and grozvs serious) Dick, why don't 
you let matters take their course? 

Fullerton. Not if I can help it — I think my boy 
means to marry that woman. 

Filson. Did you ever stop to consider that per- 
haps she is the mother of his child? 

Fullerton. (After a pause, in zvhich he eyes 
Filson rather hostilely) That was all legally 
settled — years ago. 

Filson. Yes, but only legally settled then. 



COMMON CLAY 87 

(FiLSON faces Fullerton as one who is ready to 
state a case and fight for it. Fullerton looks at 
hint in blank astonishment) 

Fullerton. What do you mean? 

FiLSON. I mean that the matter was never settled 
as it should have been. 

Fullerton. You were my lawyer. 

FiLSON. I was your lawyer and did as you 
wished— hushed the matter up and had the child 
provided for. Then I was free to help the mother. 

Fullerton. You? Sam, you puzzle me. 

FiLSON. Perhaps I do, Dick, but Fve come here 
to-night to make everything clear. (Pauses, look- 
ing at Fullerton across table) 

Fullerton. Then why all this mystery— why 
did you come here pretending f 

FiLSON. I wanted to see what effect that girl's 
presence would have — on you. 

Fullerton. (Starting in surprise, then growing 
contemptuous) A very interesting experiment, no 
(loubt — to you. Another one of your Quixotic 
notions! You sent that woman here. 

FiLSON. Yes, Dick, I felt for that girl, and after 
the Coakley trial— I talked with her. (Pauses, while 
Fullerton gives hijn a disapproving look) I 
found that she had the right stuff in her. 

Fullerton. You think all of them have — (Con- 
temptuously) " the right stuff in 'em." 

FiLSON. At least I thought I would give her the 
chance to prove it — (Pauses) and she did. (Pauses) 
I sent her to New York, then to Europe. I gave her 
all the opportunities that money could bring— and 
she came through, Dick. (Raps on the table for 
emphasis) Yes, she came through, and if she isn't 
good enough for your son I'll eat my hat before all 
your guests. (Fullerton shakes his head and 
jnakes a wry face. Filson continues) What's the 



83 COMMON CLAY 

mater with her? They're all falling over llieir feet 
to meet her, aren't they? 

FuLLERTON. But they don't know that she's the 
same woman who was here in^ this room ten years 
ago — under very different circumstances. 

FiLSON. Different circumstances are w^hat make 
different persons. 

FuLLERTON. Bah. That has nothing to do with 
it. (Rises and stands with his fingers drumming the 
table) I employed you to keep that woman away 
from Hugh and you've brought them together. To 
let her v/ork her game on him — (Filson holds up 
his hand in protest. Fullerton continues heatedly) 
Oh, I can see your hand through all of this, Sam 
Filson. (Fullerton crosses to rear zvall of library 
left and presses button. TJien turns to Filson and 
continues) I am going to stop it all right now. 
(Manservant enters door left. Fullerton and 
Filson calm themselves while he is on the stage. 
Fullerton turns to man) Ask Mr. Hugh Fuller- 
ton to come downstairs at once. 
(The man bows and exits up stairzuay. Fullerton 
watches him closely until after his exit and 
then turns to Filson.) 

Filson. (Rises) What are you going to do, 
Dick? 

Fullerton. I am going to tell Hugh to get that 
woman out of this house. 

Filson. (Crosses up toward Fullerton) If she 
goes out of this house I go v/ith her — (The tzvo men 
stare at one another. Filson pauses and speaks 
with an inmiendo in his tones) And a certain 
skeleton comes out of your family closet. 

Fullerton. You mean you'll 

(Filson nods affirmatively.) 



COMMON CLAY 89 

FiLSON. If she goes out everyone will know 
why. 

(FuLLERTON considcTS.) 

FuLLERTON. Sam, I always thought you were 
my friend. 

FiLSON. I always have been, Dick, and I hope 
that I may remain so. (He reaches out and puts 
both hands on Fullerton's shoulders, looking him 
squarely in the eye) 

FuLLERTON. Then why play such a prank on 
me? (Pauses) You seem to forget that I am a 
father fighting for his own. (Filson walks dozmi- 
stage facing a^idience and Fullerton looks after 
him and speaks) You're a bachelor, Sam Filson — 
|j?bu have no child. (Filson starts, and Fullerton 
comes down toward him) Put yourself in my place, 
man — put yourself in the place of Flugh Fullerton's 
father. Perhaps then you might understand a 
father's feelings. 

Filson. (Speaking slozvly, as if weighing his 
words) But suppose I should put myself in the 
place of Ellen Neal's father? Do you think he 
should fight for his ownf 

Fullerton. (After a pause) Oh, don't 
vaporize, Sam. (Pauses) Why didn't you tell me 
of what was in your mind ail these years instead 
of keeping it bottled up to 1st out on me in this 



wav 



Filson. You always avoided the subject, Dick. 
I kept your son's part in it hushed up, as you wished. 
She had the same right to have her part kept quiet. 

Fullerton. I can't understand why you have 
to take her part. 

Filson. And perhaps it's just as well that you 
don't understand. (Shakes his head) Dick, we 
come of a class that keeps such matters under the 



90 COMMON CLAY 

rose — that teaches its young to hide the things that 
its fathers hid. Right or wrong, we learned from 
youth up. (Pauses and shakes his head) And 
you can't teach an old dog new tricks. (Hugh 
enters coming dozvn-stairs. Filson notices him) 
Here comes Hugh. Now be careful. 

Hugh. (Entering library) How are you, Judge 
Filson? (Filson and Hugh bow and Hugh turns 
to Fullerton) You sent for me, sir? 

FuLLERTON. Yes. You seem to have planned a 
pleasant little surprise for your mother and for me 
this evening, Hugh. 

Hugh. I can explain — I meant to explain at the 
proper time. 

Fullerton. (Dryly) Nozv is the time. (With 
heat) Why did you bring that women here? 

Hugh. I — v/e — (Indicating Filson) wanted you 
to see what manner of woman she has become. 

Fullerton. And why, pray should I be in- 
terested in the manner of woman she has become? 

Filson. Flugh, tell him everything. Perhaps 
he'll understand — (Walks toward stairzvay) And 
then ril bring Ellen downstairs. Fll leave you to- 
gether, and see you later. 

(Fullerton watches Filson going up stairway arid 
shakes his head as Filson exits up.) 

Fullerton. I'm sorry you have listened to 
Filson, my son. He has put his own Quixotic 
notions into your head. 

Hugh. I know what Fm doing, father. 

Fullerton. Not v/hen you are under the in- 
fluence of that woman. 

Hugh. You must not refer to her as '* that 
woman". (Hugh and Fullerton face one an- 
other) 

Fullerton. And you must not address me in 



COMMON CLAY 9^ 

_„,,, a tone-(Pa,iscs) You were glad to have me 
s and by you nine years ago when your trouble 
'arose wLler. i^^'" ""^ his tone groj^ so er^ 
I am still standing by you, my son {He puts Ins 
L'rf on HtJGH's skoMer and speaks wUh feelmg) 
There is nothing stronger than a father's love. {A 
ong pause. The tzvo men look_ at one_ another 
Then Hugh speaks in tones that snoz, he « moved) 
Hugh. I know that, father, as well as yoa do. 
FuLLERTON. How Can you know ? 
Hugh. Because I, too, am a father. (Fu^^^-R- 
TON ghvcs Hugh a searching look, then he turns 
from him and sea'.s himself left <>/ ,*°W^J«o^^»>3 "/^ 
It his son as if for an explanation. Hugh sit. 
right of table and continues) When I first sav/ 
Ellen Neal in this room ten years ago I was a 
thoughtless boy reared to a sense f P"Yf <^§^' ^^; 
when I first saw her son-and realized tnat I was 
the father--! becan.e a n.an-fiHed with a sense of 
resDonsibility. 

FuLLERTON. You liave seen the—-— 
Hugh. Yes, often. {Pauses) One day-a&mrt 
three years aao— Judge Filson called me to his ofrice 
I went-Ind Ae boy%vas there-(£n^/^...m^^^ca//y) 
a healthy, splendid little fellow- (Faz^^^^^) He 

was 7»v son. • • 1 o 

FulLerton. You fer.o^y— positively.'' 
Hugh One p-limpse was enough. (Hugh tatics 
from his inner p^ockct a photograph, looks at it, roiis- 
ina an interest in Fullerton, zvho rises crosses to 
Hugh, and looks at picture zL'hich Hugh holds then 
takes it from him and examines it more close y. 
Hugh notes the effect on his father as the latter 

''' FullLton. Your son— beyond the shadow of a 
donbt. (There is a long pause. Fullerton seems 
to\e considering something. He ^ooksnowand 
again at the picture, then hands it back to Hugh, 



92 COMMON CLAY 

who looks at it, puts it back in his pocket, rises and 
puts his hand on Fullerton's shoulder) 

Hugh. There is nothing stronger than a father's 
love. 

FuLLERTON. There can be but one answer — to 
that — from me. 

Hugh. (After a pause) As soon as I saw my 
son I asked Judge Filson if he could tell me where 
the boy's mother was. He sent me to her address 
in New York. (Pauses) When I found her there 
she had become a woman that any man might wish 
to marry. It made m.e hesitate to ask her to marry 
me. I had done her nothing but wrong. I did not 
deserve her but I fell in love. And then she told me 
that she loved me — that she had always loved me — 
(Pauses and seems thouglitful, speaking slozvly) 
The greatest love sometimes falls on one who de- 
serves it least. 

FuLLERTON. (Ill kindly tone) She is sincere — 
you know? 

Hugh. You could not doubt her if you knew her 
as I do. She loves me, she is the mother of my 
son — (Speaks slozvly) Judge Filson is going to 
bring her down here in a moment. If you wish her 
to remain among us, she will do so. If you wish 
her to go, I go with her. 

FuLLERTON. (Thinking) Hugh, would you 
mind letting me speak with her — just a few mo- 
ments? Will you leave the room when they come? 

Hugh. (Considering) Will you be careful to 
remem.ber that she is our guest — and a very unwill- 
ing one? I had to beg her to come here, and I 
will not have her humiliated. 

FuLLERTON. I shall remember — I promise. (Up- 
stairs — off-stage — door heard to open and there 
floats down music of the zvalf:; " Destiny '\ Full- 
ERTON and Hugh look up. A shadozv on upper zvall 
rear indicates the approach of persons on the stair- 



COMMON CLAY 93 

ivav) Will you go — in there? {Indicates door 
left Hugh looks at him and then exits left, as 
Ellen and Filson enter on stairway and come 
dozvn. Ellen is beautifully gozvned. She is not 
combative in her manner as she looks toward Full- 
ERTON. She is rather inclined to leave matter s^ to 
Filson, on whose arm she leans. They zvalk into 
the library, and Filson looks around as if expecting 
to see Hugh) 

Filson. Where is Hugh? 

FuLLERTON. I askcd him to let me speak with 
Miss Gail. 

(Filson looks puzzled and Ellen gives a start and 
looks to Filson as if for guidance.) 

Filson. What is it that you v/ish to say, Dick? 

FuLLERTON. You may remain with us and hear. 
{Turning to Ellen) Won't you sit down? (Ellen 
locks fo Filson again and he nods compliance.^ She 
seats herself rather nervously) Miss Gail, I do not 
wish to harass your feelings. I am not a hard man 
— I am simply the head of a household who loves 
his family and who wishes to secure for his chil- 
dren all the happiness that they can h.d.YQ.— {Paiise) 
I naturally take an interest in whoever my son is to 
marry. 

Ellen. I understand. It is only because of that 
that Hugh could persuade me to come — here— to- 
night. 

FuLLERTON. You v/ill pardou me. Miss Gail, if I 
say that there are many things about this whole 
matter that I cannot understand. 

Ellen. Perhaps that is because you can't under- 
stand a woman in my position, Mr. Fullerton — 
(Pauses and Fullerton looks at her as if for an 
explanation) I mean that you can only understand 
your kind of persons, Mr. Fullerton— both men and 
women — those who were born vv^ith their living 



94 COMMON CLAY 

made for them, their thinking done for them, and 
their morals fixed for them. You don't know what 
it is to have to make your own Hfe. 

FuLLERTON. I may not be able to grasp all the 
new ideas or excuses that float around these days, 
Miss Gail, but I've seen life. 

Ellen. Yes, you've seen life, Mr. Fullerton, but 
I've lived it. You've stood by and looked on while 
others have struggled — but I've struggled. {She 
begins to break) You were born away from the 
fight — I was born into it. But I can't go on with 
this — {She breaks) 

FiLSON. No, DicK, and she shall not be made to 
— what is it you want us to do ? 

Fullerton. Sam, I cannot let my heart run 
away with my head, as you have done — as Hugh 
wishes to do — {P arises) I want her to say here and 
now that she will give up my son. (Ellen starts. 
Fullerton zvatches her closely and speaks to her) 
He thinks he loves you now, but if you marry him 
you'll both regret it. 

Ellen. {Hurt) And does he agree to give me 
up? 

Fullerton. He agreed that I should have a talk 
with you. 

Ellen. {Anxiously) Where is he? 

Fullerton. I will take your answer to him. 

Ellen. Mr. Fullerton, I love your son and he — 

Fullerton. {Holding up his hand) If you 
really love him the only way you can prove it is by 
not standing in the way of his happiness He thinks 
he loves you now 

Ellen. But 

Fullerton. Surely, there can be no argument 
to that, Miss Gail. Love, to be worthy at all, must 
be unselfish. The only way you can prove your 
love is to be willing to forego it. (Ellen's lips 
quiver but she controls herself) Hugh has a place 



COMMON CLAY 95 

in the world to maintain, standards to be guided by, 
and — {Glancing significantly at family portraits) 
traditions, handed down for him to Hve up to. 
(Pauses and looks at Ellen, zvhose eyes have fol- 
lozved his to the portraits, and who is visibly af- 
fected) If you really care for him, you cannot — 
will not — stand in his way. 

Ellen. {Quickly and resolutely) And I won't. 
{Sh.e rises, zvith one hand on the table for support. 
Her voice is low as she tries to suppress her emo- 
tion) Hufjh has many traditions to live up to, but 
there is only one that was handed down to me — {She 
and FiLSON exchange looks of mutual understand- 
ing) I won't tell you what it is, but it's enough to 
keep me from standing in the way of the man I 
love — {She pauses. Filson starts, then gives her a 
grateful look) If you have persuaded Hugh to 
think as you do — {Her voice breaks, she catches 
herself) I'll give him up. 

(Filson crosses to Ellen, starts to kiss her fore- 
head, but catches himslf, takes her hand, sJiakes 
it, and looks at her silently for a moment, then 
turns to Fullerton.) 

Filson. You can't ask more than that, Dick. 

(Fullerton looks at Filson, there is a long pause, 
and then Fullerton walks to door left. He 
puts his hand on the doorknob, turns to Filson 
and smiles.) 

Fullerton. You're right, Sam, no man could 
ask more — of any woman. {Opening door, he calls 
off-stage) Hugh 

(Hugh enters, he looks about him, trying to grasp 
the situation. Fullerton motions him toward 



g6 COMMON CLAY 

Ellen. Filson, surprised and pleased, releases 
Ellen's hand. Hugh crosses and takes her in 
his arms. Slozvly Ellen realises and smiles. 
FiLSON crosses to Fullerton, grasping his 
hand fervently. The two old men stand look- 
ing at the couple a moment, then Fullerton 
takes Filson's arm and guides him tozvard the 
stairway. They cross and go up the stairs as 
Hugh and Ellen sit on the sofa, and 

The curtain falls 

(The off-stage music — ''Destiny'' — continues to 
play after the fall of the curtain.) 



COMMON CLAY, 
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